


Story of T or ha ha ha very funny fucking change it

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Beware of Tim fucking Skold, Bloodplay, Bodily Harm Kink, Bondage, Breathplay, Burnplay, Butt Plugs, Cock Cages, Cock Slapping, Consecutive Gangbang, Cruelty and Kindness, Crying, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk About Feces, Disturbing stuff, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Use, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Feels, Films that present sexually explicit subject matter in order to arouse and satisfy the viewer, Foot Fetish, Friends With Benefits, Guilt, Heterosexual Sex, Issues up in the head, M/M, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Non-Linear Narrative, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Offensive Dirty Talk, Oh, Orgy, Piss, Poor Ginger Fish, Poor John 5, Poor T---, Porn, Public Sex, Retrospective Gangbang, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Scat, Shame, Shit, Shit is the least of your problems, Smoking, So it is easier if you just forgive me, Suicide Attempt, That is tedious, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold fucks them all, Tim Skold is not a role model, Tim Skold vomits, Violence, Vomiting, Warning: Tim Skold, Watersports, You will have to apply for a visa if you want to come here and kill me, as in, by the way, horrors, sorta threesome, that is, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 201,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: The bastard's back.
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld, John 5/Ginger Fish, John 5/Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld, John 5/Tim Sköld, Marilyn Manson/Tim Sköld
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO I WROTE A MESS AND IT ISN'T EVEN MINE!
> 
> Uhm.
> 
> Hello.
> 
> Sorry for the delay. Life is the worst enemy of literature.  
> This text is a sequel to this whole... whatever that is that ended here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20042341  
> Read all of that first, then this, then contact your local embassy.
> 
> The text is set some short time after Ephemeris. The span is 2 to 3 years. The order of the chapters is fucked up. The time inside the chapters is also behaving strange. Don't worry about the continuity. I sure didn't. Also I don't know a single thing about life. Just disregard and read and please forgive me.
> 
> I only hope that I've managed to make my long ass list of points.
> 
> If you're confused by anything, ask for the tourist one, there're tons of companies that can send you a fake invitation.  
> Or just drop me a line, I'll try to explain myself.
> 
> This text will cause distress.  
> It did. It does. It always will.
> 
> There're sentences as long as short stories in here. There're... There is everything, this shit is LONG.  
> I hope the sheer volume will soothe your raging hearts.
> 
> If not, then it's 50 to 150 bucks, depending on the time of processing.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I didn't put the archive warning there, but there is violence.  
> I've no idea how g r a p h i c it is, but do proceed with caution.
> 
> And the suicide attempt is there too, yeah.
> 
> So like... Be careful around 'Be reckless what you fear, you just might love it" and the last one. The 'Structural Integrity' also has a part that gave me shivers.
> 
> Be careful in general.
> 
> Don't do this stuff at home. Or outside of it. Or elsewhere.  
> Just don't do it. Just read about it.
> 
> As usual, English is not my native language and this thing is like 200k long, so yeah... Mistakes.
> 
> All of them fictional, by the way.
> 
> And nothing belongs to me.
> 
> Fuck me.

  
The center of mass lies right there where his sternum ends.

The thing is heavy. Pulling. Cold. 

Nauseating.

  
He's looking in the mirror.

Foreign, barren landscapes.

  
Blue.

  
The corners hurt his palms, digging in between the lines, but neither his palms, nor he himself know anything about that.

He sees the glass out of the corner of his eye.

  
The fucking glass with toothbrushes.

  
Blue. 

The eyes are blue.

  
His palms are sweaty. Liquid on the skin.

  
There're two brand new toothbrushes in the glass on the shelf he's holding with hands he doesn't feel are his.

  
Two.

  
The thing is heavy. Coiling. Cold.

It's spreading. 

  
He doesn't feel like he's breathing, there're dry leaves, mold, dust and feathers stuck in his throat, but when he does, when he inhales, the slick thing vibrates, and he's nauseated.

  
It's pressing on his nape, right on the C7.

With tendrils going up.

  
They grip him.

He grips the fucking shelf.

  
His eyes are blue. The toothbrush...

  
He looks at it. At the glass. The glass the glass is made of.

Through it. At it.

  
At _it._

  
He sees it in the mirror too, out of the corner of his eye.

  
He's so sweaty it seems that his clothes clinging to his skin are rotting. Falling off like peel. 

  
Bile.

  
He licks his lips. He's dizzy.

  
The teeth are getting in the way. The toothbrush is...

  
Fuck.

  
It must stay here.

  
He hears the sounds coming through the door.

He hears the voices.

  
He'll simply stay right here. Nothing will fucking happen to him. He isn't even present. He has the mirror. The shelf. The glass. The fucking toothbrushes.

  
He doesn't need the fucking toothbru---

  
He's dizzy. 

He wipes saliva running out of his mouth, using his own shoulder and the T-shirt he's wearing as a napkin.

He would've swallowed it, but it won't let him.

  
He's gonna vomit.

Vomit those fucking leaves and dust and mold and feathers out, that fucking slimy mess will leave him, land on the mirror, the glass, the shelf, his hands the corners of it are digging through, he can't let go of it, he doesn't know what he'll do, he doesn't kn---

What are you.

There is bile on his lips.

  
The lips aren't really his. The tongue. The skin. The hands. 

The toothbrush.

  
He didn't fucking ask for it.

He doesn't need it.

  
The teeth are getting in the way.

The teeth are...

  
Maybe he'll punch out his own teeth.

  
Maybe he should've done that long ago.

  
Maybe he should've punched out his own teeth, maybe had he done that, the fucking, fucking toothbrush wouldn't be there in the glass, the brand new fucking toothbrush, the one he said he didn't need, he said that, he heard his own fucking voice, he was there, he fucking knows what he needs and it's not tha---

  
It's not that fu---

  
He should've punched out his own teeth long ago.

  
He shakes. Coughs. There's bile and saliva on his chin.

He tries to spit into the sink.

  
The coiling thing shakes with him.

Vibrates.

  
It fills him up.

It's spreading.

  
He can't.

  
He can't leave.

  
He must stay here.

  
He hears some sounds. Some steps. Some shuffling.

He hears a voice.

  
"Tim, are you coming?" the voice whines. "We're waiting for you, you know. Have you died there or what?"

  
He shivers.

The liquid on his palms is blood. 

"Fuck," he says.

  
It's red. His eyes are blue. He grabs the paper roll, tries to wipe off the blood, then with his T-shirt, he isn't thinking, he is sweaty, there's something trickling down his spine, he turns on the tap, the water running down his fingers, it's red, it's pink, it's barely colored, it's transparent, he shakes, drops landing on the mirror and the shelf, the glass, the---

  
"Fuck," he says.

  
He breathes.

The air hurts his lungs, he takes a breath, he then says _fuck_ , he shivers, wipes his face with his wet palms, then washes it, rubs at his forehead, his chin, his...

He glances in the mirror. 

His eyes are blue, his skin is pale, his hair is messy, he combs it with his wet fingers, pushing it to the side, he wipes his lips, his lips are dry, he drinks some water, the pool of water in his palms, reflection of his sleepy, tired, beaten snout in it, wavering and breaking and the---

"Fuck," he says, he takes his T-shirt off, it's also wet, like he has run a marathon, like he was the very first guy who did it back in the ancient times and the T-shirt has been rotting ever since, he throws it into the laundry basket, his wet palms on his skin, his chest, his nape, his shoulders, moving, fingers digging in, causing sensations, he's no longer frozen and the---

  
He breathes.

  
"Yeah," Tim shouts back. "I---"

  
Tim turns off the tap and turns around and leaves the bathroom.

He's fine. He is okay. He's Tim. He should go out. The bastards that he loves are waiting for him. 

  
The toothbrush is lying there in the corner of the bathtub, broken into halves.

  
_Yeah_ , Tim says.

  
_I_


	2. Structural integrity

In literature, an epigraph is a short quotation that is set at the beginning of a text or section of a text to suggest the theme of what’s to come.

  
"Because I wanna know what my upper limit is," Tim says, leaning on the table and looking at the gloomily chewing unappreciative bastards. 

He takes a drag. The bastards watch him expectantly.

"I don't mean the number, of course," he continues, exhaling the smoke and stealing a slice of cucumber off Ginger's plate. "That's useless. But I wanna know how it feels. To stop because I can't take it anymore. Not because it got so good that I need to come right that second."

Ginger shivers. John purses his lips. Tim scoffs.

"Seriously?" he asks. "Fuck you then. Fuck both of you. I'll do it myself. I'll post an ad. I'll go find a dominatrix. You ungrateful bastards. I fucking cater to _your_ fucked up needs and you won't slap my cock to death? Fuck you."

He smirks and starts making coffee.

"Jesus," John says. "Look... Fuck. I'll do it, alright? Just... Why the fuck do you need Ginj there?"

"To console me once I start crying like a baby, of course," Tim readily explains, looking over his shoulder. "You're too selfish to do that. And you hate me."

"Fuck you," John says. "I don't fucking want you crying."

"Sure," Tim says, chuckling and turning around, a cup in his hand. "Come on, you idiots. Stop letting me down. I want pain. I want misery. I want excruciation. I should be getting it from you, not from some fucking strangers. You're my soulmates. You're the ones who should provide me with torment."

"God," Ginger exhales softly. "Okay. Just... It's not gonna... I mean, I don't want anything bad to happen. It's not gonna be too much, is it?"

"It _is_ gonna be too much," Tim says and sits down next to him, stealing a piece of sausage off his neglected plate. "That's the whole point. But no, I won't end up in a hospital or anything like that. You'll see to that." He puts his hand on Ginger's thigh, running his fingers over his skin and smiling a nasty smile. "You'll stop this lipstick wearing mauler if he gets too excited, won't you?"

"I'm not a mauler," John says, giving him the middle finger. "Stop pissing me off."

Tim bows his head a little, shutting up, and sips his coffee. Ginger's tender tentacle lands on his wandering hand. John chews on a slice of cheese and sighs.

"Fuck, alright," he says, nodding his wavering agreement. "I'll do it. I'll slap your damn cock. Your stupid stinky tiny cock."

"Thank you," Tim says, succeeding in yet another culinary burglary and grabbing Ginger's toast. "I knew I could count on you."

"You'll---" John starts.

"Yeah, I know, now I owe you something," Tim says, shoving the toast in his grinning trap. "I owe you everything. I'll do whatever you want, don't you worry. I aim to please."

"God, shut up already, you dumb fish," John says and gets up. "I need to go to the studio now."

Ginger gets up too, letting go of Tim's hand and following John out, no doubt sucking his face in the doorway and telling him to have a good day, while Tim engages in thievery behind his back, cleaning his plate off his own breakfast.

"Want me to make something else for you?" he inquires, once Ginger comes back into the kitchen. "Sorry, I guess all that throwing up I practiced yesterday left me starving."

"Can we make something together?" Ginger asks, his fingers twitching. "I mean, if you have time for that."

"Of course," Tim nods, getting up as well. "I am in no hurry to go sit alone in the room being creatively stuck with that stupid tune."

"Maybe... " Ginger says, and Tim opens the fridge, reviewing the items. "Do you want me to look at it?"

"Your help would be very appreciated," Tim says, settling on the second breakfast option. "Come on, I'm gonna show you how to do really cool things with eggs."

  
"Good job," Tim says later that day, admiring the tied up lower half of his Bavarian sausage of a body, the creator of this meat product towering over the bed and chewing on his lips. "Now take off your belt."

Ginger sighs behind his back. John sighs in front of him. Tim exhales his radioactive frustration.

"What?" he asks, squinting at his reluctant mauler.

"Do I have to do it with the belt?" John asks, squinting back at him. "It's like---"

"It's like better than doing it with your divine hand, believe me," Tim interrupts him. 

"Is it?" John asks, voice coming out with an unpleasant twang.

Tim scoffs.

"It is," he says and shakes his head. "Jesus. Look, if you do it with the belt, then it's gonna get bad much faster than if you slap me with your hand. So I'll probably lose my mind before I get injured. And I'd say that is our goal here."

"Fuck," John says, Ginger exhaling sharply at the same time.

"Also, your magical guitar jerking extremity won't get hurt," Tim adds generously. "So I'll lose my mind because of the sweet pain and not because of your insufferable whining. And I'd sa---"

John slaps his tied up legs with his magical guitar jerking extremity. 

"Shut up," he says and takes off his hideous belt.

Tim chuckles.

"Okay, final instructions," he says a minute later, having deemed the level of his own incapacitation sufficient to prevent involuntary kicking that might affect his personal tormentor and thus threaten their exercise. "Concentrate your righteous anger on one area, but don't slam into it. Like, slap the skin, not the meat. We don't want swelling."

John shivers and closes his eyes for a second. Ginger shivers and swears quietly. Tim sneers and doesn't shiver at all.

"And stop if my stinky cock becomes purple or something, alright?" he says, lying down, his ingenious head landing in Ginger's lap. "Squid, I put my faith in you. Don't let this baby sadist turn me into a eunuch."

His long dead ancestors get cursed not by one, but by two witches after that.

"Fuck," he speaks again, the tension in the room feeling palpable. “Relax, you idiots. John, do you want to suck my stinky cock farewell first? And we’ll look at your greedy visage. Will that make everybody happy?”

The bastards inform him that their contentment will indeed be elevated if this scenario is to be implemented, so Tim obliges, and John sucks his cock that is soon to be destroyed goodbye, and both Tim and Ginger admire his blissful ‘I am having oral sex’ face for a while. After a few minutes, though, Tim decides this bullshit has to stop, so he tells Ginger to hold him by his arms tight, and Ginger complies, and he tells John to slap him into submission, and John complies, and he tells himself he must try and make this day really special, determined to writhe and suffer beyond belief.

The play he writes and directs for this immersive theatre of his comes in three acts. 

During exposition Tim writhes on the bed, spread there like a half peeled Bavarian sausage between his personal tormentor and his personal consoler, John's heavenly cruel hands operating the belt that's landing on Tim's burning masochistically erect cock, Ginger's heavenly tender tentacles holding Tim's sweaty shoulders, Tim swimming freely and carelessly in these familiar waters, jolts of perverse pleasure travelling through his masochistically trembling body, approbatory snarling bursting out of his shark trap, intermixing with the ragged breath both overly concerned bastards fill the room with.

During climax Tim stares at John's fracturing sadistically flushed face and at John's agitated sadistically erect cock and at John's cooperative unrelenting hands slapping his burning and by now rather flaccid cock, and feels Ginger's fluctuating plasma under his sweaty shoulders and Ginger's terrified tentacles gripping his strained arms tight and Ginger's bleeding essence burning and melting and suffering with him and his tortured cock, Tim swimming in this fucked up pool of delicious emotions, thermonuclear elation rupturing his chest, jolts of delectable pain travelling through his exploding whining body, his snarling blocked by blood and minerals his mouth is full of, his snarling transmutating into something else, something twofold and hysterical, delighted and agonized, the rattled bastards joining in with their wavering and overwhelmed lament and their resolute exasperated swearing, crushing down into Tim's fucked up emotional pool as well.

During dénouement Tim leaves the room the bed his body is writhing on stands in and descends into hell, turning into pure penile misery and screaming his head off, suspended in thin air by four very different hands, whose owners he cannot even see, salty oceanic water bursting out of his eyes and obscuring his vision, his whole world tinted purple, his convulsing body drowning in the fucked up pool of pain and fear and frenzy, his stubborn writhing body trapped between the owners of four very different hands, trapped between John's scared cruelty and Ginger's scared kindness, his stubborn empty mind persisting, his thermonuclear essence falling apart in the epicenter of an earthquake, Tim suffering beyond belief right in the middle of it, not willing to run away, begging to be annihilated, his excruciated cock that's being slapped to death bringing the necessary catharsis to the final outcome of his immersive play, resolving all dramatic complications.

"Stop, God, please, stop," he whimpers, stuttering pitifully, when all the lessons have been learned, and spends a couple of eternities just breathing painfully and shaking painfully and being a pathetic crying nothing, until he sees John's pretty face again, until he sees that marble landscape wrinkled by the natural disaster and generously splashed with salty oceanic waters, until he feels the salty oceanic waters falling down like rain and landing on his own humid snout, until his broken shoulders reappear with Ginger's stupid fingers digging into them, until his burning cock evades the reaper and he himself escapes from hell, until he has a body that is capable of something else but suffering, until he has a mind that can be filled with thoughts, until his shattered essence is renewed, until his lips can form into a smirk again.

"Come here," Tim says then, generously inviting his sniffing disillusioned personal tormentor with an aching cock to approach his imaginative head. "I'll relieve you of your burden."

John crawls towards him not entirely ungracefully and towers over him, the salty oceanic rain that's hitting Tim's humid snout doubling down, and puts his wicked aching cock between Tim's wicked sneering lips, his own unrelenting hand wrapped around it, and Tim mouthes at him, licking at the tip and staring at two faces above him, one broken in a pattern of loving worry, another shattering into a pattern of sadistic bliss, John emptying himself down his throat with gritted teeth, Tim swallowing him down and wondering if there is going to be a second course.

"I am not fucking hard, you sick fuck," Ginger informs him, shivering, so Tim slides off his lap and pulls him closer and kisses him, and pulls John closer and kisses him as well, transferring both the suffering and the consolation, four vibrating arms wrapped around his content body with burning redundant parts, Tim extending his assisting extremities to hug his overwhelmed soulmates and stretching his legs once his strategically applied ties are removed, holding Ginger, who doesn't get hard that day at all and keeps shivering for hours on end, in a tight embrace, helping him through the trauma of the impressions imposed on him by the playwright's talented writhing and artistic suffering, using spatial proximity to ease him and make him come to terms with the experience, all of that with constant mutual smoking and with a wet towel wrapped around his chromatically conventional cock and with Ginger's wet sweaty tentacle touching every other ordinarily colored body part of his, the scared fashion of Ginger's movements sending tingles through his tortured body, all of that with no aid from John, the cock murdering virtuoso choosing to visit the buffet after the show instead of fraternizing with the author, putting one sugary thing after another in his mouth, unscrewing the brain chemistry, purging the shock out through digestion, sparing neither a kind, nor an offensive word for Tim's outstanding staging skills.

  
A week later John writes a critical analysis of Tim's creation.

Tim goes to John's alone, Ginger choosing to spend the day with some nice people he met at the book club, Tim declining his invitation to join the literature loving crowd, figuring that his chances of getting laid are higher if he hangs out with a filthy guitar jerking virtuoso than with a bunch of tedious virgins, thinking that he is better off listening to country tunes than to a critical analysis of various subplots of philosophical novels, sure there won't be any of the latter at John's place, making a mistake, ancient gods screwing with him evidently having a taste for fucking essays.

Tim gets dragged out of John's house the moment he gets there and spends some hours following John's glossy, sparkling step, visiting commercial establishments with him, John fraternizing both with the shop assistants and with items that are being sold, procuring glossy, sparkling things, Tim generously paying for at least a third of them, John fumbling with the bags and too busy flirting to think of such formalities.

Tim gets back to John's house, when John's lust for gleaming stuff has been satisfied and his ever-present need to shine himself has kicked in, Tim unloading his own body onto the chair and starting with fumigation immediately, the sounds of the country tunes filling the room maybe a minute later, the bags full of glossy, sparkling things forgotten and forlorn, Tim gradually beginning to think he might as well join them and jump into a bag himself, his urge to combust tobacco now lessened, the room saturated with the smoke and Tim replete with sloth and lust, John severing his soul from grace for these vices with his magical spaghetti fingers enthusiastically attending to the strings instead of touching something equally responsive that belongs to Tim, Tim's body tilting in the chair and stretching out, steered in at least four opposite directions by its owner, Tim resting his hand between his legs thrown over various parts of the chair and busying his other one by fraternizing with various parts of his mouth, repeating John's movements to the best of his ability and mindful of the instruments in his possession, playing some music of his own, though a silent one, waiting for the self-absorbed guitar jerking virtuoso to acknowledge his talents or at least his presence, hoping to be put in a compromising position, not nesessarily even a horisontal one, hoping to be put on the cutting board and to be put down, his patience bearing fruit, John's longing for praise and flattery steering his head up, John pulling an annoyed face at Tim's sluggish raunchy form sprawled across the chair, Tim smirking a crooked smirk at him, his lips stretched into a bizarre shape by his fingers, and jerking his hips up the second time John blesses him with his attention a minute later, having turned away from him with a scoff, this time opting for a more pronounced scolding.

"What are you doing?" John asks, squinting at him, his hands never letting go of the guitar.

"Provoking you," Tim readily confesses, his hands in motion as well, one temporarily leaving his mouth to let him come clean before the reverend, another staying where it was and doubling its irreverent efforts. 

"Well, fucking stop it," John says, pursing his lips.

"Nope," Tim says, quirking his. "I didn't come here to suffer celibacy. If I wanted that, I could've joined the book loving gang, you know."

John regards him for some seconds, displaying a very demeaning attitude, Tim's improper conduct getting even more lewd at that, and then puts his guitar on the floor, getting up and approaching Tim's landslide of a body, Tim first wondering which part of the avalanche John is going to unclutter, equally excited about both options, John briefly attending to his currently inverted grin, replacing his fingers with his own, allowing him some oral worship, Tim's head hanging off the armrest of the chair and then getting transferred upwards with the help of John's hand in his messy hair, Tim straightening in the chair, releasing his by now rather stiff cock and making an attempt to grab at John's, John slapping his hand away and sinking on his knees in front of him instead, pulling yet another vexed face at Tim's obnoxious smirk, Tim deeming the provocation successful and spreading his legs wide, making a broad gesture.

John pulls the aching result of Tim's vulgar ministrations out of his pants and covers it with the wet, hot, skillful blanket of his tongue, licking various parts of it and then taking the whole thing Tim is so liberally offering to him in his mouth. Tim's hands start tingling pretty soon, Tim readying himself to applaud the performance and staring down at the artist giving him both head and a really good show, John's glossy, sparkling eyeslashes fluttering at his own grandeur, John glancing up at Tim now and then, checking for the visual praise and flattery that are twisting Tim's toothy features. 

The spectacle starts to approach the climax, Tim using his extensive literary knowledge to determine that and using his hips to help bring it about. John glances up at him again, inhaling loudly through his nose, and disrupts the pageant, not abandoning Tim's cock entirely, just letting it out of his mouth, not letting it out of sight, Tim furrowing his brow, confused about modern art and wondering what kind of experiment the showman is going to pull off, wondering if he needs to break the fourth wall and address him with a pressing enquiry, looking at John's equally furrowed brow, John's feathery frame tense and uneasy. 

John takes manual control of Tim's cock before Tim manages to speak. Tim then masters a positively urgent sound, amazed by the surprising turn in the narrative and gripped by it hard, gripped by John's hand suddenly doing a positively wicked thing, clutching around his shaft and attempting pivoting quite successfully, the current moments of Tim's life full of dear excruciation.

Tim's delightful agony, though, passes briefly. 

"Fuck you," John spits out, terminating it abruptly, letting go of Tim's cock he's been showing no mercy to, entitling his summary of Tim's immersive theater play succinctly.

"I fucking hate you," John adds, sparing no clemency for Tim's left thigh as well, slapping it furiously and hissing at his own blow, beginning his fucking essay Tim's ancient pagan gods annex to their extensive library with a passionate expression of personal opinion.

"Did you fucking have to ask for that crazy shit of yours?" John whines, falling on his butt not entirely ungracefully, presenting Tim with his pissed off landslide of a face, questioning the author's intent.

"What are you banging on about?" Tim inquires in his turn, observing John's delightful agony that lasts longer than his recent one, in need of further clarification, crazy shit being his creative specialty.

"That fucking thing you made me do to your stupid cock," John elaborates, correctly identifying the main character of the play.

"Do you have any idea how I fucking felt?" John demands to know, addressing originator's responsibility for his work.

"Or were you too busy being full of yourself?" John explores the topic, hinting at creator's rampant self-importance.

"How?" Tim asks despite himself.

Because John's critical analysis is not the most sound piece of writing.

Because he was busy screaming.

Because he actually has a pretty good idea.

Because it's not himself he was full of at that excruciating moment.

Because somebody needs so many classes.

Because he doesn't feel like discussing aching cocks when there is at least one present in the room.

"How?" he asks anyway, and John is not particularly impressed by his indulgent style of teaching. "Hm?" Tim urges him on. "How did you feel?"

John squints at him, empty paragraphs appearing in his essay, the aspiring critic not so eager to surrender the effects Tim's play had on him.

"Horrible," he says, surrendering the whining.

Tim nods, biting his lips.

A grin appears on his inner weapon of sarcasm instead.

"You were fucking crying," John says, displaying some lamentation himself. "Fucking _screaming_."

 _Indeed_ , Tim thinks.

 _A+ to you for noting the use of imagery_ , Tim thinks.

John purses his lips, searching for his own expressive means.

"I was scared," he says, opting for a direct description.

Tim sighs.

His inner weapon melts a bit and sighs with him.

"Well," he says, straightening in the chair, changing his lewd position to a more respectable one, acknowledging the gravity of John's declaration, prepared to retire as a playwright upon his request. "It's all in the past now. It's not gonna happen again."

"Yeah?" John says, a challenge in his voice.

"Yeah?" Tim snorts out, dismissal audible in his.

"Fuck you," John immediately reacts. "I hate you. Always putting sick fucking things in my mind. Playing your sick fucking games. I should just fucking punch you. Who the fuck are you to decide what's gonna happen?"

"Wow," Tim immediately submits, struck by the fervor.

"Okay," Tim makes a not so solemn pledge, struck by laughter.

"Fuck off," John says, turning his offended head away, evading Tim's offensive sneer that is now not confined to the radioactive quarters of his chest. 

There is another break in the narrative after this.

"I felt like I couldn't stop," John finally avows, and Tim sees tears in his eyes which he knows would taste like pure anger.

He sighs again, figuring he cannot skip this class or indeed the study of the fundamental nature of reality itself.

"Well," he says, shifting in the chair, shifting closer, spatial proximity yet again his servant. "You did, didn't you?"

John sniffs and wipes his angry tears off his whiny pouting face.

"You sick fuck," he says, his anger now articulated by his whiny pouting lips. "Did you have to tell me that? Is it not enough for you that I get hard because of that cutting bullshit of yours? Do I have to jerk off about your purple cock now?"

"What?" Tim snorts.

John clenches his fists, clearly less amused.

"Did you?" Tim follows the path of justified belief.

"Yeah," John reports.

"Wow," Tim assesses his disclosure. "Cool. Little pervert."

"Fuck you," John contests his estimation. " _You_ are a fucking pervert."

"Sure, blame me," Tim yields. "I love it."

John eyes him, and Tim knows how those punches he's ready to throw would feel on his skin.

"In my defense, this is really just an accident," he says, showing John the author's notes.

"I didn't intend for you to sink this low," he says, John showing him his abusive middle finger.

"Glad that you did, though," he says, showing no sign of injury. "Good to know I am not alone in my love for plums."

"'Cause I sure as hell beat off about that too," he says, happy to expose his vile nature.

"You must be more like me than I initially thought," he says, admitting his previous mistakes.

"Fuck you," John retorts. "It isn't funny, Tim. I don't want this. I don't want to get off on cutting your cock off. I don't want to want this."

Tim sighs, still very much ahead in his monstrosity.

"Well, you don't," he says, evaluating John's level of submersion anew.

"Don't I?" John spits out his doubts.

"Do you?" Tim voices his perspective. "What do you want to cut it off with then? A scalpel? A kitchen knife? A smashed bottle? A shovel? Your dumb guitar pick so that it really, really hurts and takes forever?" John shivers. "I personally like the pick. Stylish. Painful. Messy. Nasty. All that tissue you'd have to dig through. Skin. Arteries. Urethra. That spongy shit it's full of." Colors leave John's face. "Or you could cut it open first. Study the fucking atlas. Meet the corpus cavernosum. Make me look too. You'd have to do something about the shock, though. And the screaming."

"Shut up," John says, pressing a hurried hand over his mouth, confining the bile.

Tim chuckles.

"Just like I said," he highlights the conclusion. "You don't want it. Yet."

"Fuck," John says, another convulsion rippling the marble surface. "You're fucking insane."

"Yeah," Tim agrees. "Mentally disordered shark." He points at himself. "Impudent pup." He points at John. "Not to be confused."

John wipes the minerals Tim is full of off his fragmented face.

"Also," Tim starts again. "I'd fucking let you if you did. All the way in. Remember, your satisfaction is my goal. So what are you even chastising yourself here for?"

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" John says, locating a more appropriate object for his chiding. "You'd let me cut your fucking cock off?"

"Yeah," Tim shrugs. "Not right away, of course. You know, things that can be enjoyed repeatedly take precedence over pleasures that can happen only once." John lets out a hiss, censoring his use of figures of speech. "So like, when you're ready for the real slicing, give me a call. I'll be waiting for that blessed day." John employs gestures to berate him further. "As for the plums," Tim goes on, getting up with the subject of their discussion hanging out of his pants. "I think I might know a solution to your problem."

He goes through John's bags full of glossy, sparkling things, forgotten and forlorn on the floor.

He secures his glossy, sparkling booty.

He returns to John, remembered and favored on the floor. He drops his pants his cock was hanging out of. He sits in the chair. He makes some efforts. He uncaps the glossy, sparkling purple lipstick. He coats his cock that's sprung to attention with it. 

"Here," he says, presenting John with the masterpiece. "Today our dreams come true."

  
"But I still want to hurt you," John says, when disposition changes, Tim sitting on the couch and John sitting right beside him, both in agreement on fundamental questions and both naked, Tim's cock colored in its natural shade again, the purple sparkling lipstick washed off it by John's hand and with some giggling, John now attending to it with his eyes.

Tim puts out his cigarette and swings his metal casing open.

"Go ahead then," he says, and they compose a play together, and the dramatic arc they use has a classical structure that helps them organize their thoughts.

First both of them get exposed for what they are.

Then comes the rising action, John's wicked hand around Tim's cock, John's heavenly cruel fingers digging into the skin, if not through it, Tim's arousal building up to the point of John's greatest interest, Tim himself guiding the aspiring author, showing him how to do really cool things with mentally disordered sharks, burning, melting, hissing, yelping, twisting as if shocked, though he isn't, oscillating towards the torture delivered by both their vicious instruments, John repeating his tricks to the best of his ability, and his ability is indeed praiseworthy, Tim paying for the awesome anguish John puts him through by a direct exchange of goods and, in their case, evils too, both the participants having what another wants, John full of his mentally disordered flesh that corrupts him from the inside and licking the gravy off his lips he keeps biting, developing his own troubling tastes by the minute, Tim relishing the flavor of his own blood they're spilling, John exploring the anatomical atlas of Tim's cock and Tim's balls and Tim's thighs and Tim's guts digesting the whole world they pay no attention to and Tim's deadly, poisonous chest with his unrelenting hands Tim gives classes in both classical and more experimental mechanics to, both the student and the mentor in constant communication, the paper they are writing their shared creation, John asking Tim if he's alright after more adventurous turns in his exploration of the topic, Tim stating he most definitely isn't, hinting at his unsound mind, and claiming he is much more than that, pointing at his pretty stable torture boner, declaring his delight with every stylistic device that's known to him, eulogizing John's pulling, pressing, twisting, squeezing, slapping and most of all his open staring, glorifying John's attempts to screw his cock out of its residing place, John screwed by them himself, entranced by Tim's burning cock they now color red, by Tim's melting, heaving chest that's letting out gasps of demented pleasure, by Tim's hissing, yelping, sneering mouth and his gritted teeth, by his eyes rolling back and his troubled head lolling in the same direction, by his vibrating form, by the currents shocking him, by the warhead being disassembled right in front of him and for him, John's own structure crumbling, his marble shell in pieces, his face colored glossy black, sparkles in his eyes, concepts deconstructed as they proceed along.

The climax happens when Tim screeches out a scream, that fate changing event brought by both their daredevil hands, Tim's eyes getting full of tears he thinks John should learn the taste of, John's eyes glued to his haunted grimace of misery Tim's savoring, John himself partaking in consumption of his torment too, dropping his hand that is not so busy making Tim fucking cry and fucking scream and grabbing at his own cock, generating obscenities falling out of his own oral cavity, generous invitations leaving Tim's, the literary tension forcing them to make their moves, John springing up, yanking Tim's demented head closer, his hands cupping his humid snout, his thumbs pulling his toothy trap open, Tim tilting forth, accelerating towards John's imminent sadistic bliss, falling face forward on his impatient cock and crushing his own excruciated one, the evidence of its imminent demise running down his cheeks John's cupping and echoing around John's pretty active length, John's cock stifling his shrieking, his suffering, though, not in vain, his suffering observed closely from above, the spectator wide-eyed and whining, alien and horrible and feeling quite alright and not scared in the slightest, stopping not something he's inclined to do, his inclinations written on his face Tim stares at with blurry eyes, the pure beauty of the moment rupturing his chest, John coming down his squealing throat, Tim coming in his crash site of a fist, John crushing down the sinful pit, Tim letting him all the way in, wide gestures an essential part of his vile nature, John's avarice aligned with it.

The falling action is straight-forward, John shaking and collapsing on Tim's convulsing form on the couch, both of them producing sounds at the collision, two avalanches happening at once, two avalanches of their bodies intermixing, limbs thrown wide and scattered, two tornadoes of their ragged breaths merging too, turbulent torrents fusing them together.

Tim decorates the end of their play, marking the dénouement with his radioactive chuckle, and another obstacle on their creative path is removed, another hurdle's ruined, another hindrance is destroyed.


	3. Pisces

  
It might be April outside, but it is late November in his throat.

There are dry leaves in there, mud and mold, some fucking feathers, tubular bones scratching the flesh every time he inhales, even though he should stop, there is dust, dust on his muzzle, skin like a mask without any tissue separating it from his skull, it's stuck to him, rigid, stiff, constricting, and even though he inhales, he can't breathe. Not really. Not with that coiling thing inside his chest. 

It's cold.

He's cold, he's lying in a ditch or something, not a proper grave, not even a garbage dump, just some dirty dent in the surface of the Earth and it is freezing there.

The thing inside his chest is colder. Infinitely so. And crushing. Pressing. Keeping him confined. Barren. Lifeless.

There is a spider web covering his face, and then, suddenly, there is warmth and light - faint, like it's not yet dawn - between the threads, and the sky above him might be all clouds or all dirt, because there is no sky, just soil, dust, but that timid feeling stays with him. It keeps him company while he's lying there dead. While he goes numb with cold, the cold that reigns inside him.

  
It must be April when he wakes up, but if it's not, if it is March or June, then it doesn't matter, the fucking months aren't very different in that regard, and if he doesn't die at all in July and August, then it is September that lasts for only fourteen days, because the rest was misery and hate and unsexy guilt and solitude.

It must be April when he wakes up and it is Ginger who awakens him, it is his hand that slowly removes the spider web off his snout, his hand that combs his filthy hair, his hand that traces the curved bones of his skull while he's looking at him.

It must be April when he spends six days in his private prison and it is Ginger who comes to spring him with that warmth and light that are feeble, careful and gentle, which means Ginger's doing it the hard way, he doesn't elevate him instantly like the shining creature who sometimes did, he gradually approaches him and then doesn't leave his side, he comes and stays there with him, first by the door, then by the door inside the room, then close to him, then even closer, and then he touches him.

  
It feels like farce, being kissed when you're a corpse rotting on the sand, but it does eventually stir the dense radioactive metal he used to have in his heart so long ago.

  
It's April and Tim is sleeping in his dark room, resentful and alone, until Ginger quietly comes in and sits beside him for who knows how many minutes, there is nothing in that room that could measure time, nothing's ticking, not a single thing alive, he sits with Tim until he touches him, his tired, dusty face, his empty chest, his bruised knuckles, he touches Tim until he kisses him, and then he just keeps kissing him.  
  
That's when Tim wakes up.

  
It's slow.

  
Tim isn't naked, but he mustn't be really called dressed, he's wearing something, sure, something that once was pants and something that once was a shirt, both things now rags, a smelly crust Ginger patiently removes, scraping it off his motionless cadaver, the cloth is soaked in alcohol he spilled on it and in his cold, scared, hateful sweat and in his blood, he sat there shaking in the corner, nauseated, frightened to his very core, his useless broken radioactive core, frightened and disgusted and fucking sorry for himself, he sat there and he saw that mirror he didn't want to look in, he saw it out of the corner of his eye the whole time. And the wall - the wall he punched. The cloth - he wiped his blood on it. 

Tim isn't naked, but Ginger is undressing him, he kisses every centimeter of his foul skin that's freed of cloth, his kisses shy, lips soft and warm and slightly parted, devotion trickling off them.

It's slow.

It's slow because returning from the dead is not an easy task when you're buried in your tomb.

When you're sure you must stay there.

  
Also it's slow because Ginger is afraid.

  
And he should be. _Go away_ is the nicest thing Tim's said to him in days. Almost in weeks, if counting what went on before he was convicted, and Tim is counting.

He's kissing him, and every kiss might become the last. Every kiss might become the trigger. Every kiss might become the stab wound Tim'll pay him for his love.

  
It's slow and affectionate and tender, and it arouses him. It makes him hungry. It brings him back.

It's fucking sacrificial. It burns him.

  
The thing is, certain elements burn at low temperatures.

The thing is, when Ginger puts his mouth on his cock Tim still doesn't know if he'll snap or not. 

He lifts his head, opening his eyes, and sees Ginger curled up on the floor between his legs, sweeping his tongue over his length, and when Ginger sees him, sees him looking, there is a pause and shivering, and Tim's mind's blank, it is a black hole and his chest is its event horizon, and Ginger shivers, lowering his head, hair falling on his face, and he removes it just like he removed the spider web, he tucks it behind his ears and licks Tim again, letting him watch, and there, right there, that is a point of ignition.

"F-fuck," Tim says, throwing his head back, closing his eyes again. "Fuck. Ginger."

_What the hell are you even doing._

  
What are _you_ doing, Tim.

Wh---

  
What Ginger's doing is he's licking him, licking him everywhere, his cock, his balls, his thighs, his hole, he's kissing him, kissing the fucking pubes, taking the head and the balls in his mouth, sucking, fondling them, breath wet and hitching, bathing Tim, and Tim who has been dead, Tim who is a nuclear disaster, Tim goes mad. Bit by bit. Inch of caressed skin by inch.

Then there are also fingers, Ginger's hands on him, everywhere too, his stomach, chest, his knees, his fucking butt while Ginger tries to take him deeper, carefully pushing him up, there are as many touches as there are grains of sand on the bottom of the ocean, and that's where Tim is.

He lifts his head once more and looks, now without stopping, and he can't see much, there isn't anything that could measure time in his private prison and there is nothing that lets in the light, but there is a door and it's ajar, a little, barely, and the dawn slips in, though, of course, it never reaches Ginger's face Tim's looking at, it's on his lower back, on his illegal vertebrae.

Tim grabs his head.

"I'm gonna die in here," he says, pulling at his hair, combing it, cupping his face, touching his lips stretched around his cock, his cheeks with red spots on them, the somewhat wet corners of his eyes. "You're gonna kill me."

Ginger's breath hitches with a moan that lands right on the very tip of Tim's cock Ginger's tongue is circling, and then his fingers find Tim's hole while Tim holds his head with no intention of ever letting go, abdomen muscles strained, grip tight, thumbs on the wet corners of Ginger's mouth, Ginger finds his hole and rubs at it, index and middle fingers, he pushes them inside, slowly, dry and bare, while Tim shakes, crushing his skull between his palms, and once the proximal phalanges start getting in he puts his thumb under Tim's balls and pushes down, curling the fingers inside him up, pinching the perineum, tongue licking at the tip of Tim's cock he's keeping in his mouth Tim's staring at, brushing against his lips, and Tim doesn't die in there and Ginger doesn't kill him, Tim simply comes, because Ginger makes him come.

  
Tim watches, vision blurry, at Ginger coughing, letting his cock out of his mouth and licking at his lips, bringing his fingers up to wipe them and licking them as well, taking him back in, swallowing around him, Tim going soft between his lips. 

Tim's head falls on the floor.

"Come here," he breathes out. Then he breathes in.

Ginger crawls on top of him, and Tim pulls him closer, closer, closer, until he's sitting on his melting chest and his hard cock melting in his boxers could touch Tim's snout were he to lift his head again.

"Suicidal idiot," Tim says, palming him, trying to pull him out. "Come on my face."

He tears the cloth apart to free him in the end and withdraws, throws his arms wide above his skull full of nightmares and poisonous debris - it is full now - and watches Ginger nod and hesitate and wrap his fingers around himself and finally begin to jerk off, his cock above Tim's open mouth exempt of dry fucking leaves and mold and feathers.

When Ginger comes in it, the last traces of dust are also washed away.

  
Varian Disaster, Donoperteich

  
Ginger studies his stained features from above, panting, looks at his sneer smeared in come, at his blissful tired eyes, the void that dwells in mirrors gone from them, at his beaten shark snout, and then he bends and kisses him.

Of course.

  
And it takes forever. Like, at least till noon.

  
Tim wipes Ginger's face with his palm and his own with the back of his hand and licks both clean.

  
"So what?" he asks, seeing Ginger smiling softly at him. "Let's rise and shine?"

  
That is obviously an overstatement.

  
He doesn't really walk, but he moves around the house, he eats and even feels some taste, he says maybe twenty more words, deciding to abstain from uttering the twenty first and the twenty second, he pays a visit to the bathroom, but doesn't take a shower, he puts some clothes on, though, actual fucking clothes, which might be a mistake, because he only soils them, his body odor that of a dumpster, his body heavy, ready to slump down at any moment, and it does, he spends three hours sitting on the floor, leaning on the doorpost with his shoulders, and there are thoughts floating in his mind, but there aren't many, the black sucking empty void is somewhere close, coiling under the thickness of the warm waters with minty flavor Ginger pours down his throat as if green tea is a potion for making horrid creatures better people. 

  
He is a horrid creature and he's been dead, but maybe he could become alive.

  
He can't sleep.

"I'll be here," he says, sitting on the floor next to the bed, combing Ginger's hair, looking at his tired wrinkled face, and when Ginger falls asleep he stays where he said he'd be, he stays out of his dark fucking room, he sits on the floor in the bedroom throughout the night, watching the universe's biggest mystery and passing out beside it, heavy head fallen on the edge of the mattress, Ginger's breath shuffling the mess on top of it, and when he wakes up from his insomniac oblivion, he looks at him again, he watches him till dawn and past that.

Tim kisses him.

  
He can't kiss Ginger the way Ginger kisses him, but fuck him if he doesn't try. His lips are dry and rough, scaly, he tries to make them soft and warm and wet, to breathe out hitching moans that sound like Ginger's name, instead exhaling radioactive splinters that scratch his skin he worships, he tries to pull them out with his teeth and only further lacerates him, he is abrasive even when he's tender, he always hurts him, he sweeps his sharp, cutting tongue down his body arching on the bed and trembling, his fingers he is tracing Ginger's bones with sending charges, shocks instead of streams of pleasure that engulfed him when Ginger was the one who venerated him.

Tim still goes on.

What else can he fucking do.

  
Tim pulls off the blankets, unwrapping Ginger's sleepy mumbling body, creating a wooly nest around him, Tim takes off his clothes, stripping him the way he dismantles squids on cutting boards, Tim kisses him, the corners of his eyes, the corners of his mouth, his neck and collar bones, he licks the ears, sucking on the lobes, hair tickling his nose, he counts his ribs with his tongue and measures their length, circling his nipples, pressing his face to his diaphragm, he salivates all over Ginger's stomach, smelling the internal organs residing underneath the skin, he kisses him and by the time he takes him in his mouth Ginger's already sitting, breathless and awake, his feet on the edge of the mattress, knees bent, toes curling, Tim's hands holding them, his hands clenched in the sheets, white throat exposed, Tim pulled him up as if by magnet, without using limbs, and now Tim takes him in his mouth and Ginger moans and yes, it is his fucking name.

Tim licks him, licks, kisses, sucks everything he can, his cock, his balls, his hole, his curling toes, bites gently into his thighs and sneezes a few times, chuckling, he spends an eternity adoring his cock with his tongue, at least six fucking days, and when he lets go of Ginger's feet, pushing his dry callous fingers inside him, just distal phalanges, because that's more than enough, when he does that, pushing himself too, down, deeper onto Ginger's cock, gagging, stomach contracting, when he does that Ginger comes.

Of course, he does.

Of course, before he does, he says he's gonna to. 

"Tim, you're..." Ginger mutters after he comes. "Are you... Can you..."

Tim pushes him to lie down on the bed and crawls on top of him, and Ginger's tentacles pull him up, higher, ever higher, right into the fucking sun that's leaking plasma, and when Tim looms above him, his cock hanging over his face, heavy in Tim's pants, when Tim waits, Ginger's tentacles are also suspended in the air, his eyes on him, always asking stupid fucking questions, his eyes are on him until Tim grips the headboard, nodding.

Then Ginger unzips his pants and jerks him off.

Ginger gulps one last time, and Tim implodes, it takes him less than twenty seconds of seeing Ginger anxious and ashamed and blushing, and Ginger parts his lips, opening his mouth, and tries catching Tim's come with his tongue, failing spectacularly, and Tim laughs, shaking in the fucking clouds, dragging his spent cock over Ginger's blazing face and bending, falling down on him in a spiralling descent and kissing him.

It takes him nothing.

"I'm---" he says, wiping the tears and junk off Ginger's face and soiling his own with them. "Well, you know. A lousy, third-rate, worthless shark."

Ginger hugs him.

  
Tim walks around the house, makes a crappy sandwich and uses sentences, he even takes a quick shower, putting the same clothes on and soiling himself again, he smokes, sitting on pieces of furniture designed for that, he dares glimpsing in the mirror and there are actual expressions forming on his face, thoughts, maybe emotions in his mind, gradually multiplying, there're desires he can feel, one for coffee because fuck that minty grass, and one for something else he can't yet recognize, and when he hugs with Ginger on the couch in front of the TV with Ginger's pants hanging on it and covering the screen, when he lifts his head off Ginger's shoulder to kiss his neck and touch his lips, when Ginger licks his thumb, lets it inside and sucks it, looking at him, when Tim sees that he understands what it was that he was yearning for.

He smiles.

"You like licking, don't you?" he asks.

Ginger nods.

"Yes."

Ginger swallows.

"I mean... I like everything else too."

"Yeah? What?"

"I uh... Everything?" A pause and chuckling. "With you. When you hold me. My head. And... Push inside. And just..."

"Okay. And if you take me and my nasty habits out of it?" Soft laughter. "Licking, right?"

"Yeah." 

"Hm." Lighting up a smoke. "Don't think I'm with you on that." A drag. Some thoughtful wrinkling of the nose. "I guess I like... the slide? How it feels kinda heavy on the tongue. It's meditative." Another laughter. "Why licking, though?"

A shrug.

"Just... Feeling how you... The reactions. Feeling the reactions."

"Hm. Sweet."

"And..."

"What?"

"That you look."

"Fuck _me._ "

A push. Transferring the cigarette.

"You..."

"Yeah?"

"You look. You... want to."

A stab of what he longed for.

"Oh."

Fuck.

"You know, when I... The first time. With you, I mean..."

"In the fields?"

A sound and some movement.

"I uh..."

Neurons firing.

"Were you afraid?"

A pause.

"Yeah. Yes."

Shit.

"Why?"

"I uh... I'd done it. Before that. But... I wasn't sure. I thought you'd... You wouldn't... You'd lau---"

"Jesus."

Then a question.

"Yeah, give it to me." A deep drag. A long exhale. "I... God, you're such an idiot. I was like in seventh heaven. Ready to do a satanic round dance and so on."

Ginger puts his head onto his shoulder.

"I thought I'd... Look. Stupid."

Tim's shoulders jerk up and down with his chuckle.

"You did. Everybody fucking does. Cock-in-the-mouth is not the most sophisticated image."

"Fuck off."

Tim finishes his cigarette.

"I loved it."

And everything else too.

"I wanted you."

And now too.

"You were beautiful."

And are.

"Fuck off."

Tim lights up a cigarette.

"Before that... How many?"

His fingers are poking around in Ginger's hair.

"I uh... How many what?" he hears. He listens to the stuttering. "Times? Or... Or people?"

"Huh. Both?"

He laughs out loud, when he hears the numbers.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he shakes his head, smoke bursting out of his mouth. "How can you be such a virgin? God. Why the fuck did I even---"

Ginger puts his fingers on his hand.

"No." Vibration. "Don't." A bit of tightening. "I... I'm glad you did. I'm glad you touched me. I'm glad you... Came near me."

Tim bites his lip so hard there is blood. Careful with what you fucking wish for, ha.

"Fuck you," he manages. " _Fuck. You._ Fuck you, Ginger."

Ginger finishes his cigarette.

Tim puts his head onto his shoulder. 

Not right away.

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Why do you never sixty nine with me?"

Some shivering.

"I uh... I do. I mean... I can, if you wan---"

"Shut up. That's not what I'm fucking asking."

More shivering.

"You do with John." A chuckle. "All the fucking time."

The blood has stopped by now, now there is sugar on his tongue.

"I... Don't know. It's... When he asks. I just... I can't say---" Tim laughs. Ginger pushes him. "I don't want to... Upset him. I just feel like he'll---"

"Throw a tantrum, yeah."

"No, I don't me---"

"I know. I do. It's easier with him, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I just... He looks so happy. When I do. So." Ginger licks his lips. "And I... I don't feel like... I feel that I'm. I'm. Enough."

"Fuck."

"Fuck off. I just... He says he wants it. And I..."

"Hm. And how is it different with me? Do I look like I'm lukewarm about it?"

Ginger laughs and pushes him.

Tim puts Ginger's head onto his own shoulder.

"Talk."

Ginger sighs.

"I don't know, Tim. I don't really get it. It's just he asked and... The first time, I mean. He asked and he was smiling and I just couldn't... He looked so pretty. Happy. And I thought maybe I'd try... I knew I wasn't good at it, but... He asked. So... And with you it's... Fuck, I don't know. I just got worried. I... I still fucking am. You know, when we do it. When you ask. I mean, it's... It's _you_. And I'm still... Fuck. I don't fucking get it."

Tim hugs him.

"Come here."

"I'm---"

"It's probably because I ask for _you._ " He shakes. "Don't get me wrong, I always get my share out of it. And it's not like I've never asked for _me_." He smirks. "But the whiny guitar bastard's greedy. He just wants shit. And... It's easier, right? It's easier when I just tell you what to do. I mean, it fucking breaks you, but..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So when I ask you, when I really ask you, it's like... It's like why on Earth would I humiliate myself so much. Pleasing something as worthless and disgusting and---"

"Tim."

"Yeah. Fuck me."

"Fuck you."

They hug. Tim puts his fingers in Ginger's hair again.

"I uh..."

"What?"

"When we do it."

"Yeah?"

"I just... I always fucking come. And---"

"How's that bad? That's like the whole purpose." He laughs a little, while Ginger's trying to shake his hand off. "Calm down. What is the problem there? You come with John too. I've seen it. Often. Very often."

Ginger laughs as well, letting him comb his hair.

"Not like that. He... You know, he like... Stops? Sometimes. And I can... Do something. Fuck, I mean, at least sometimes he comes first."

"God. It's cock sucking. It's not a fucking philanthropic competition. Who gives a shit?"

"Fuck off. I... I've never... It's never like that with you. I just... I feel like I'm done in twenty seconds. And then. Then what? I'm just---"

"Oh. What I said before. Yes?"

A pause.

"Yes."

Tim takes a deep breath, looking at the ceiling.

"You aren't."

"I uh..."

"We should go do that."

"I..."

"If you concur, of course."

Ginger looks at him. 

Tim takes his hand in his own and presses his face into his palm. Kisses the pulse.

Ginger nods.

"Just..."

"Yeah?" 

Kisses again.

"Can I... Can I be on top? I uh... When you..."

"What?"

"Do that. Suck me. And... And I. When you're inside too. Moving... In my. In my... Mouth. It's... Fuck. It's too much."

Tim laughs, dragging Ginger up.

"Deal. We'll flip. And add something else to screw with me and make me lose my shit. Combat your compliant fuckhole kink with my compliant fuckhole kink. Et cetera."

Ginger pushes him, and they tumble into the bedroom.

  
Tim puts his tied up hands onto the pillow.

"If I still start acting up, just do what you did the last time," he says. "A bit of anal pain will cure me of my stubborness for sure."

Ginger makes a futile attempt not to smile.

"Come on," Tim says. "Come here. Let's smooch like horny teenagers."

  
He comes, comes without any anal pain, comes staring at Ginger's awesome cock that is suspended in the air right above his face, stopping himself from sucking it even though his natural impulse when things go well is to growl and shove it as deep as he fucking can, allowing himself only licking, tip and length and, with some neck arching, balls, letting Ginger do whatever the fuck he wants with him, pulling at the belt tied around his wrists, letting Ginger swallow a mouthful he expels in the blast that makes him vanish.

"Finished," he says, smirking, when Ginger turns around, admiring his blissed out state. "Now please fuck my face."

  
Ginger kisses his face after he fucks it, holding his head up with his tentacles, his gooey fingers soft and tender on his nape, he kisses him and asks him questions.

"Are you staying?" Ginger asks.

Tim lifts his tied up hands off the pillow and offers them to him.

"Yeah. Anywhere you want."

  
Then they sleep.

Then Ginger puts his tied up hands around his neck and that's how they sleep.

That's how they sleep that time.

  
That time it helps.


	4. Old MacDonald had a farm

This happens often.

On Wednesdays, Mondays and on countless Fridays, though why is that so is left undetermined, because it's not like Fridays are somehow specifically designed for this.

This happens when it's dark outside and in the bright day light and when it's dark inside because the curtains have been drawn because of migraines caused by flying or because nobody's opened them after that. This happens when the room is well-lit too, and it's not a single room that this happens in, of course, because when was Tim considerate towards them.

This happens on the bed and on the couch and on the floor and on another bed and on another couch and next to armchairs and once outside the house too, in a hotel they stay together at, Tim tortured at the studio until the very evening, providing help to guys and girls who weren't yet his friends, but were heading there steadily, providing help with strings and knobs because he never learns, Ginger wandering around the city they are in, touching statues and buying magnets they forget to pack and stuff for John they absolutely don't, because Ginger asked to be with him and Tim agreed, because he said he'd like to go too, with Tim, he said _I want it_ and that worked like a charm, and that time they do it with their fingers, because the dildos were nowhere to be found and thus were left unpacked.

This doesn't happen that another time when Ginger goes with Tim, when Tim's applauded and photographed on stage both by the public and by Ginger who's lurking in the darkness of the club, when Ginger's drawn to the free-standing sculptures and worthless plastic garbage and Tim's dragged along by him without much physical exertion, with Ginger's scared fingers lurking in the leather pockets of his jacket John steals from him a week later when they come back, lurking in the back pockets of his or maybe Ginger's - but quite unlikely John's - jeans, scared even through the cloth, scared and on his butt, and that's because Tim put them there, because Tim said _do it_ and that worked like a charm the way it always does. Anyway, this doesn't happen during that entire week, and not because it hasn't been invented yet, because it has, it's just, well, some other things occur, making new friends, vomiting and snorting substances among them and coming like motherfuckers in a different fashion too, it's just it happens often and sometimes day after day, but there're definitely rests and pauses, though nothing there necessarily demands physical exertion, but there are breaks and so a seven day one is more than possible.

This still happens pretty often and there is a calculable relation between the frequency of an event and the chance of remote undesired outcomes, and they discuss it afterwards, when Ginger becomes way too worried about Tim once, after Tim disregards the equations despite apparent evidence this is a gamble appearing right before his eyes, after he just destroys it and devours it, they do the math together and fail to discern the level of the threat, and the next time Ginger expresses his concerns, Tim having shown none for anything at all just ten minutes earlier than that, Tim says it might be reckless, but then again he who doesn't take risks never gets to swallow shit, and Ginger laughs and pushes him off the bed he's shaking on. When Tim swallows shit for the seventh time - that he knows of, because it's not like he always looks, because sometimes it's simply dark, because they don't only do it while being sober, because they do it while being sleepy, tired, wasted, drunk and once even sick - Ginger doesn't voice his worries and just sighs, because Tim cracks offensive jokes about it, and then they contemplate the differences in their diet, which turn out to be minor when Ginger is at home, because Tim cooks for both of them and the food they order is shared too and the food they consume when eating out is exchanged, and then the differences in their digestion, which turn out to be more substantial, the ones Tim knows of anyway, because, to tell the truth, he's much more aware of and much more interested in Ginger's bathroom schedule and thus can't surrender much useful data. 

So, as it is described above, sometimes they talk after it happens and sometimes they talk beforehand, and sometimes they listen to the music they both don't like or they both love and rarely to the music they have different opinions of, because their tastes are, as it is described below, very much alike. Sometimes it happens and they drink beer and lie in bed and smoke and Tim plays with Ginger's hair. Sometimes it happens and they migrate to the kitchen just ten minutes later and smoke and Ginger plays with awesome things Tim makes them an awesome dinner out of. Sometimes it happens and they fall asleep pressed to one another without even visiting the bathroom. Sometimes it happens and they part ways for the day, because it happened in the morning, because they are awaited at different locations. Sometimes they don't part, though, because they're heading to the same place, and usually that place is John's guitar storage of a house. 

Because this happens so often there is variation to the process, and they try as many different relative spatial positions as Tim thinks possible given the variables involved, and it's not just that, it is also the actions that diverge and timings that keep changing, because it's not like there is a protocol to follow, and because there is no protocol to follow sometimes the frequent process that is described right here starts running when neither of them thought it would, when they are attempting to do something else, when Ginger's just been sucking Tim's fucking face for ages or Tim's been sucking Ginger's awesome cock for a time period that is never, _never_ long enough, but most commonly they lie on their sides and face each other and come with something in their holes and something in their mouths and not many minutes pass between their two final seizures, and it is not a perfect disposition, because Tim finds it rather boring to be lying on his side, because it's just out of character, because it's not depraved enough, but at least the act itself is, and most of all it is not a perfect disposition because Tim wants to take and show all at once, everything there is and everything he can and everything he can't, but alas, their corporeal configrations don't allow that, and not only when this happens, but in general. 

Because this happens so often Tim says somewhere closer to the beginning of this runaway process of indecency that one day he'll run out of shit encouragements to inspire Ginger with, because he is indeed very inventive and especially so in this particularly filthy area, but even he has limits, doesn't he, at least when it comes to his insulting genius, but somewhere further from the beginning of the indecent process he understands he won't, because the shit encouragements are not needed as much anymore and then not needed at all, because by then they are just something that he utters for his own or their mutual amusement and not because he has to to kickstart the bacchanalia, because exertion of any kind isn't present when they are doing it, because the warm waters of the ocean are calm and tranquil, because Ginger keeps smiling at him and Tim grins back, and of course they still fucking cry sometimes like amateur fucking howlers, because they talk afterwards and before the undertaking, and when they talk some exerting things are every so often said.

This happens often and Tim's sure that over the course of the individual instances of this specific brand of sexual degeneracy they've greatly increased the microscopic biodiversity and quite possibly created a couple of new E.coli strains. 

  
Tim comes up with this.

Tim also comes up with the names for the new E.coli strains they have quite possibly created, but first he comes up with the whole concept.

Before that he does, though, he concocts another exercise, he says _I am so doing this as well_ after Ginger exerts himself and strains every Tim's nerve by it, and then he does it just like he said he would, of course, he does it, because when did he opt out of acquiring a title, because he is more than happy to share it with Ginger, because he wants them to be the two biggest motherfucking shit eaters in history together, because why the fuck not.

So he does what Ginger did just a few days prior to Tim's quite successful attempt to earn the dignity, he takes off his - or maybe Ginger's - jeans and that's it, that's the only piece of clothing he disposes of, because he has nothing else on, because the only reason he has jeans on is the cigarette package they forgot in the car that he collects, going outside for just a minute, he takes off the jeans whose affiliation is impossible to discern and puts a smoke between his teeth and falls onto the bed Ginger is already sitting on naked right next to the dildo, and grabs at it maybe a minute or two later and in some seconds it resides in a different place Tim's fingers have just been stretching, and Tim enjoys it being there and his own ascetic preparations and the associated sting he savors, finishing the cigarette, and Ginger holds him gently by the calves, hands trembling slightly, being loyal to the signs of fear. 

Then it is Ginger who lights up a smoke, Tim busying his mouth a bit later, but with a different item, not hesitant at all, announcing his vile number, promising to lick his plate clean and then licking at the dildo he pulls out of his own hole, Ginger inhaling sharply, sucking in the fumes he's been letting out while Tim sucks on the cock, Tim's lips in a shape that does not allow smirking, Tim's eyes, though, glowing with radiation, Ginger transfixed by the eager demonstration, the trembling of his hands acquiring higher amplitude.

Then the cock keeps jumping, either shoved deep in Tim's ass or not so deep in Tim's mouth, just like it was in Ginger's orifices, but with a contrasting atmosphere surrounding its nasty trips, Tim's movements hurried, his tales now mixed, though still quite offensive, his ass much more accessible than Ginger's, much more loose and also more shitty as they both learn one day in the future, his mouth quite approachable, just like Ginger's, but Tim's is so in a different fashion, Tim's mouth is quite affable depsite the teeth, Tim's mouth affable because Tim loves cock, filth and Ginger's meat and that _is_ what he is swallowing when he's not spitting out his incoherent declarations, syntax gradually vaporizing from his speech, neither dialogue nor monologue exactly taking place, the former not only because of Tim, the former also because of Ginger who keeps moaning and does nothing else, he simply soaks in sweat and in Tim's poisonous performance, and those are, of course, the rightful parts of the language of the sea Tim is quite fluent in, but not this time, this time most of his knowledge has been fucked out of him by his own heartless hand, so he fails like a loser in his heartfelt peroration and that is also caused not only by the dildo, though in regards to it there're obstructions too and, if Tim gave it thought, he wouldn't be able to decide which dirty thoroughly fucked orifice of his that is enjoying wicked pleasures impede his immoral sermon more, and of course on the surface it is his soiled mouth that is quite full of the soiled cock half of the time, but Tim's not one to stay in shallow waters, Tim dives deep, so it is both and not because of anything that's palpable or at least that's not all there is to it, Tim quite enjoys being fucked - and thoroughly at that - and always salivates when there's something in his mouth, unless it's fucking tongues, and always gets overly excited when there're objects in his ass, tongues this time included, so this is a relevant, but not the most important part, because his ability to deliver verbal presentations is impaired and his conversation skills are almost lost not only for he's pounded on his back in front of Ginger, but for Ginger stares at him and doesn't look away, for he keeps moaning, for he's nearly molten, he's so hot and so thawed he's on the verge of becoming plasma from the center of the sun, and Tim is most certainly quite mad in general and notably at that delightful moment, but this he understands, he's well aware of what it is Ginger's going through, what it is he's feeling, what it is he cannot say, because Tim's been inside him and there is no need for words that also were uttered and so many times, Tim knows everything and wants just as much or more, Tim wants to grab the shaking jelly and mold it in a thermonuclear explosion into a fish-gig and _complete_ himself with it, Tim wants to keep it liquid and pour it down - or up - his digestive tract, Tim wants to pervade himself with it, Tim wants to rip his own deadly chest apart and pull Ginger to the very core, to have him fill up the whole interior, to have all of him inside, and of course he already does, but then again his desires have always been unbounded and discordant, so yes, Tim wants to have Ginger inside of him, his tender loving tentacles, his dumb eyes, his soft lips, his kinky feet, his bony knees, his awesome cock, his whole bleeding body, his every fucking atom, Tim wants to be fucked directly in the heart.

So most things Tim says during those moments do not deserve to be set in stone. The show as a whole, though, might have counted as a quite engaging vulgar film, and Tim ponders this when he's again intelligent enough. But while it is going on he doesn't, while it is going on he spits out vocabulary crumbs and issues snarls, he utters four letter words, he obviously mentions shit a lot and _fucks_ are also articulated in abundance, he turns into a weird mixture of everything that's in his character, that is a rightful part of structure which he loses rapidly and with enthusiasm, he dissolves in the dark, warm, endless ocean and Ginger pulls him down, further from the surface, Ginger holds him under water, though, clearly, there is no need for that, because Tim lives there and Tim dies there, because where would he go, because it's his dark, warm, endless native space, and Ginger holds him by his calves while Tim transfers feces and separates multiple bacterial families, and it's not necessary, but indeed very useful, because Tim's old bones do get tired.

Tim's nuclear disaster of a heart goes haywire and Tim wants everything, Tim wants the vast expanse of the expanding universe, Tim wants Ginger and he can never stop, so he grabs at him, he grabs at his hands and disregards the numbness in his legs he might feel later and, by the way, he doesn't, he's way too distracted for that and also not on his back for long after this, he grabs at Ginger's hands and calls out his name, but not in its entirety, because he's frantic, he says _Ginj_ and _want_ and _you_ and _crap_ and that might be somewhat perplexing, but it's by far not the most obscure thing Tim's ever said and Ginger's always been very comprehensive, Ginger understands him perfectly, so some seconds later Tim is thoroughly fucked and overfed with shit by Ginger's accommodating tentacle, the leaps that the dildo's making now with a new quality to them and occuring with a different speed, the taste of filth that's travelling on it also changing, blood more prominent in the cocktail Tim's gulping down, blood and tears and Ginger's purposeful affection, and Tim soaks in all of that, Tim drowns, Tim shakes much more violently than Ginger's tentacle that fucks his hole and more reluctantly his face, Tim welcomes both intrusions, Tim strives towards them, Tim's touched to and by his core, and Ginger says _oh fuck_ and _Tim_ and _Tim_ and _Tim_ again and that's it, that's all he says, because there's nothing else, because Tim is sinking to the bottom of the ocean and Ginger floats inside his chest and its thermonuclear interior is all he sees and all there is, it's just Tim being everywhere, it's Tim being everything, and everything that isn't dead is moving and Tim's moving too, Tim sinks deeper, Tim wants to reach beyond the Mariana Trench, Tim grabs at Ginger's tender loving tentacle again and pulls the dildo out of himself with it, Tim grabs at Ginger's awesome cock, he spits and quite generously so in his palm and smears it in saliva, he hurries up and straddles Ginger, he goes down in one motion and there is no sting to savor, at least not one of his own, because he might have hurt Ginger with his shit turmoil, but it seems he didn't or maybe if he did Ginger didn't notice that, busy noticing some other things and being hurt perpetually and much more severely than with a loose hole Tim starts fucking on his cock, so now Tim's on his cock and Ginger's gasping and lost in Tim's radioactive inner chambers, and Tim starts saying words, words like _your awesome cock_ and _my fucking shit_ and _my foul face_ and _for you_ and _tear apart_ and _fucking die_ , and the future he creates is there, even though his incantations are incomplete, deficient, even though who knows what they are, who knows if he's asking or demanding or making threats or making promises or predicting things or just vomiting his phrases out, because he doesn't, he doesn't know fucking anything and looks the part, he is as fragmented as his speech, but also complete, finished, full and coming less than in twenty seconds, coming on Ginger's cock, mouth stuffed with the soiled dildo by Ginger's shaking hand, because Ginger is a diligent sea creature and figures out confusing things, because Ginger stares at his haunted, distorted, shit eating face and bleeds with fucking love, he stares at Tim as if Tim's a festive shark in a gift wrap and he's been begging to have him for fourteen billion years, at least, when in reality Tim's simply a blond perverted scum who's just been sucking things he's shoved up his ass for at least ten minutes and is still sucking them, when in reality he's jumping on Ginger's cock like a demented fish, looking the part, looking fucking scary and obsessed and out of control and monstrous, looking like nobody sane should come anywhere near him, and it's not just speculation, because Tim's seen all of it, because he's seen and knows what he is, but Ginger's cock throbs while Tim is at it, so the chances are he's into it and he's for sure in Tim, he is inside him in so many ways and he stays inside him even after Tim comes, because Tim's still on top of him, because he's still demented and obsessed and uncontrolled, it's not like coming changed his core he's fucked - he's _loved_ \- through, is it, so Tim stays Tim after that as well and keeps jumping on Ginger's throbbing cock and just pulls the soiled one out of his mouth and throws it away and says _fuck, Ginger_ , he cups Ginger's blazing face in his hands and Ginger looks up at him and Tim says his name, Tim says _fuck, Ginger,_ Tim says _Ginger, Ginger, Ginger_ and that's it, that's all he says, because there is nothing else, and then, another twenty seconds later, there is, because Ginger comes, hot and ruined and almost dead, and what there is fills up Tim's whole interior.

  
After this exercise Tim enjoyes their communal title for some weeks, proud and more than happy to share it with Ginger, but then he thinks they might need to confirm it too, because who knows what their neighbours have been up to and maybe he's not the most disgusting person in the state, which would upset him, were it true, so he thinks that and then he thinks they could repeat it, he could suck on the things that've just been up his ass and so could Ginger, and then a thought that it is needlessly secluded and withdrawn crosses his fucked up mind, this thing they've done, and he thinks they can increase the camaraderie, he thinks they can be magical shit mirrors for each other, he thinks they should find the second dildo that is fuck knows where again.

And then they do.

And they keep doing it, they lie down on their sides and stare at each other and swallow their own - or one another's - shit and come like that, like filth craving oceanic idiots they are, and this is what they do that Friday.

Though first it's Thursday and they don't watch two movies they put on after having dinner that actually was not Tim's creation, that was Ginger's pitiable attempt at making Italian dough dumplings Tim laughs his ass off about, both while Ginger is still trying to produce them and when they're already eating the resulting tiny goblins, but then it's early Friday and they lie in bed and try to sleep and fail too, fail in conjunction, as a team, and then it's Friday and maybe 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. or 4 a.m. and they're talking and they have been awake forever, and maybe it isn't Friday, because there're no calendars on other planets, and the hours also should be measured differently, because they are on fucking Mercury and the night lasts longer than Tim ever cared to count, and it's, of course, unlikely, but then again it's very, very hot in their bed, so proximity to the burning star might also be considered.

Anyway, they are in bed and it is dark and they are talking and they are sleepy, tired, naked, sweaty, hugging and with smokes in their mouths.

And it is not the dawn and it is not the sunset of their conversation, it's some point in the middle, but _when did you..._ is what Ginger says.

"Hm," Tim hums in reponse. "When I woke up the next day?"

And Ginger laughs softly and wipes his wet face, because when it was dawn and the sun was coming up it hurt his eyes, it made him shed tears Tim's licked off his skin since then for at least four times, but they just keep running, because they are in bed and it is dark and they are talking.

But when Tim says _when I woke up the next day_ Ginger doesn't cry, Ginger laughs softly and wipes his face.

"That..." he says and doesn't finish, because Tim interrupts him.

"Too much too soon?" Tim interrupts him, puffing out the smoke.

Ginger laughs again and shrugs and shakes his head.

"Later too," Tim says. "Like, every day after that. More and more. And till this very second. More and more and more."

He props himself on one elbow and pulls the ashtray closer, and Ginger is already pretty nearby, and realistically, that is why Tim's so hot.

And blankets. Blankets too.

"But yeah, back then as well," Tim adds. "The very next morning. And not a bit. A lot. Head over fins, you know."

Ginger snorts, and the warm smoke lands on Tim's face, tickling his nostrils.

"And you?" Tim asks.

Ginger hums too and licks his lips by the sound of it.

"Don't know. Probably... Probably before."

"Oh? Thought naughty thoughts about me, didn't you?"

"Tim. Of course I didn't."

"Yeah? Too bad. So what... Just peanuts then?"

"I guess. I just... It was..."

"Hm?"

"Absurd."

Tim pshaws.

But not because of false impressions.

It's false assumptions.

Clearly.

"You were so... I didn't... I _couldn't_ think that you'd---"

"Little did you know."

Then they kiss, and it is Tim who sucks Ginger's face, it is Tim who puts his hands on him, in his hair and on his skin, it is Tim who gives the impulse, and they lie in bed together, sleepy, tired, naked, sweaty, hugging and with each other's tongues in their mouths, so nothing's inconceivable.

"And with John?" Tim asks when they part to smoke again. "Anything... stimulating? I mean, _he_ 'd been pretty busy."

Ginger laughs.

"Yeah."

"Oh?"

"Not like _that_."

"Like what then?"

"Just... Imagined things."

"What kind of things?"

"Stupid things? Like... Stories. How it could happen."

Tim laughs.

"All rated G, I assume?"

"I... Fuck. Yeah."

"Sea maiden."

And then they put out their cigarettes and Tim makes an attempt to pop the sea maiden's inc sac once again, and the dildo from the outer space dwells between their pillows like a sword that separates the virgin from the knight and the glass one lies covered in dust under their bed, so first Tim has to get up and wash it, because shit's one thing and dust's---

Or not.

Or maybe _when did you..._ is not what Ginger says.

Maybe it is _you know, with the... that time._

And if it is, then before he says that they lie in bed and it is dark and they are talking, if it is, then some time before that Tim says _why do you worry so much_ and many other things in the long hours on Mercury gone by, because that would be an absurd beginning to a conversation, because clearly they first got to that point somehow.

So if it is...

"You know, with the... that time," Ginger says and swallows hard, if it is.

"Yeah?"

"I never. I didn't know I uh... And you just did that and did it again and I couldn't do anything. Felt like... Like..."

"Like you're helpless?"

"Yeah. And then... It's just, you know, it's not supposed to---"

Tim frowns.

And it is dark in there, so Ginger doesn't see it, but he cuts himself short anyway, so maybe it is not as dark or maybe it is magic or maybe he just knows Tim like nobody else does, like somebody who is inside him, like somebody who is always there with him imploding in his fission bomb.

"Not supposed to what? Make you hard?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"I don't mean it like that. Just. It's not only that. It's fucking _everything_. With you. I feel like... Like you can just tell me to and I'll fucking come."

Tim chuckles.

"Probably not. But we can try."

"Fuck off."

And just like Tim's _yeah_ had a scornful twang to it Ginger's swearing comes with a sound of smiling.

Then he speaks again.

"I... It's too much sometimes, you know. And I felt... I felt..." Ginger gulps. "Repulsed." Tim grits his teeth. "With..." Tim's breath hurts his lungs. "Myself." Tim's whole body goes tense. "Like you pet a dog and it fucks your leg." Tim's chest aches. "Like I am this..." Tim can't, he just ca--- "Worm."

"Fuck."

There is a pause after that.

Of course, there is a pause after that, because this time it is not disdain that Tim's _fuck_ is colored with, it is pain that is unsexy, and it is not only that, it's many other things too, but pain is definitely there and pain is what Ginger hears, because while there is a pause in their conversation there is also a tender tentacle of consolation on Tim's shoulder, and, well, he would've had some feelings about its presence too, were he not too overwhelmed by Ginger's narrative, and actually he does, of course, he has some fucking feelings.

"Do you..." Ginger starts when the pause ends. "Do you want me t---"

"No. Tell me."

And now there is a tentacle of loving reservations on Tim's shoulder. So he has to say something else.

"Please," he says.

And this short line of his is also not flat, it has volume, and the reality of this must be explained by non-Euclidean geometry, because no other entity would care to.

"Okay."

Ginger just breathes for a while, his agreement now signified, but his thoughts still uncollected.

His words are dispersed as well.

His words are _I..._ and _I feel_ and _dirty_ \- d i r t y - _sometimes_.

His words are _like some_ and _some sort of..._ and _slime._

S l i m e.

"... slime," Ginger whispers, voice tight. "And I... I didn't... You--- That you had to---"

" _Had_ to?"

It's Tim who interjects.

Not that Ginger doesn't stutter on his own.

" _Had_ to?" Tim asks.

"Fuck," Ginger says. "I... Sorry."

He says _fuck_ and _sorry_.

S o r r y.

And it's not that Tim's fucking ears don't hurt. Because they do.

But.

S o r r y.

He says _sorry._

Like a fucking idiot he is.

"Sorry," he says. "I know... I know it's---"

He exhales.

"Insane."

He whispers.

It's not Tim. It's Ginger and he whispers and he says _insane_. 

And it is.

And Tim would've said the same.

But differently.

"Shut up," Tim says instead. "Fuck." _Slime_ , he thinks. _Dirt_ , he thinks. _Worm_ , he thinks. "You aren't that. You are nothing," _Nothing_. " _nothing_ like that."

"I know," Ginger says.

And fuck.

_Fuck._

Does he?

_Does he?_

"I know," Ginger says, both syllables warm, soft, clement kisses on Tim's face.

"I know," Ginger says, both words a mercy.

"I know," Ginger says. "I just... I didn't want you to..." he says. He says _you were_. He then stops. He says _with_. He stops again. He says _me_. And it's not all of it. He misses things. "And I wanted to, you know..." He says. Give. Give. "Give you something," Ginger says. "Not this..." This? "Perverted." It's blank. It isn't _fuck_. It's just blank. Blank. "Perverted shit."

" _Perverted?_ "

Just.

P e r v e r t e d.

The saving grace comes as a laughter.

Tim shakes his head.

"Fuck," he says. This time it's _fuck_. "Ginger. Have you fucking seen what I do to my goddamn cock?"

Have you seen anything? 

_Anything._

Perverted, right.

Ginger laughs again.

Ginger laughs and shifts, he shifts exactly where he has to, he shifts just right, he shifts, because Tim pulls him closer, because he says _come here_ with his grabby hands, he says _get inside me_ , he says _lie still and take it_ , and Ginger shifts, exactly where he mustn't to, he shifts wrong.

But he feels just right.

He feels perfect.

_Perfect._

"It's..." he says. "Fuck, I don't know." he says. "I didn't want you to... To have to do that."

That.

"What?" Tim says. That. _That._ "Touch you? Like you?" It's give. It's fucking give again. "Want you? Love you?"

Love you. 

Yeah. He says that.

Though.

Well, he does.

He does say that.

What Ginger does is barely there. It's microscopic. It's invisible. And it is dark, of course. But not because of this. It's infinitesimal.

He nods.

What Ginger does is nods.

And luckily, _luckily_ \- and _he_ glorifies her, he makes sacrifices, he brings her offerings, he brings her coins he finds on the floor, coins that were brought home by Ginger and coins that were brought home by him, coins from an obscure country he cannot speak the language of, he brings her rare coins and the fleshjack, because he's a perverted bastard and because he thinks she might laugh, he brings her gifts, because he has a room for that, because he has a temple, because he is mental and an idiot, this _he_ does - he does something else next. 

Because otherwise.

Because that would've been.

Because he just can't, he simply can't.

But luckily he speaks next.

Luckily he speaks soon.

"I..." Ginger speaks. "Now. Now I want it." Ginger says.

He fucking does.

He says that.

"It's just," Ginger says. "When you... When you touch me. It's a lot. It's..."

Tim touches him.

Tim caresses his hair.

_Caresses._

He does.

With his not so heartless - of course they are, they are just that - hands.

"I..." Ginger says. He shivers. He is touched. "Fuck. I love your hands on me."

His heartless, cruel, evil hands.

He does.

He fucking does.

"I love your hands," Ginger says. "Nobody--- You know, nobody's ever..."

And fuck.

_Fuck._

"Like there's..." Ginger says. 

Ginger whispers.

Of course, he whispers.

They both fucking whisper like teenagers.

Because they are in bed and it is dark and they are talking.

"Like there's..." Ginger says. "Like there's nothing else. For you. When you're touching me."

Of course.

_Of course._

"Like your fingers..." he licks his lips. "Want me." He whispers. More so than before. That's how he whispers. "Like I am the best thing---"

Of course. _Of course._

The only.

"You are," Tim says.

"But not a _thing_ ," Tim says.

"A squid," Tim says. "You're the best squid."

And the only. None like him. None. 

One of a kind.

One of a kind laughs.

Tim licks his lips. Licks his worries - he has so many - off them.

"And with John?" he asks then, later, when they've lighted up another smoke, when they've finished taking drags, when it is probably 4 a.m. or even past that.

"Uh?" Ginger says, voice tired, they are tired, they are in bed and it is dark and they're talking.

"How do you feel when you're with John?"

Clarity is with them in the dark.

Clarity is tired with them in their bed.

"Not..." Ginger starts. "Not like this." Of course. "I mean, it's nice. Really nice. But it's not like this."

Of course, it's not like this.

With him it's pain. The pain he makes him love.

"Like..." Ginger goes on. "Don't know, like he... He can't..."

"Can't wait to unwrap the gift?" Tim asks.

He floats in warmth.

Warmth Ginger breathes out.

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out softly, with a smile.

He doesn't see it, but he feels it. He knows it is there.

He knows something else.

Still, he asks. 

He doesn't always ask, does he.

He almost never does.

"Would you like him to?" he asks Ginger and it's a whisper, just a whisper that leaves his mouth, he's whispering like a fucking teenager, because it is gentle, it is tender, it's a delicate thing he just can't fuck up, he can't, he's not allowed to, he won't fuck up.

"To what?" Ginger asks him back.

Ginger asks him things. He's done that from the very start. Before that. Not just peanuts. Questions. Gin and tonic and shoelaces. The quality of his fucking sleep. Swedish Christmas.

What can I give you for standing where I can see you.

For being near me.

That's what Ginger asks him.

But not this time, if it is that time.

This time he asks him _to what?_

"Well..." Tim says, says carefully, choosing his enchanted words. "To unwrap you."

He doesn't see the sound Ginger makes, it is a sound, but he feels it.

He feels it on his face.

On his metal shell.

Inside of it.

"I..." Ginger says, says shifting, moving closer, even closer, Ginger's scared, worried, clarity resting there with them on the bed, between them like a sword, hurting him, Tim's hurting him, Tim's always hurting him. 

Ginger swallows hard and Tim puts his arms around him, his hands on him, his hands he hurt him so much with.

"Yeah," Ginger whispers, and he almost doesn't hear it, he doesn't need to hear it, he knows it already, knows what it is that hurts him, it's he who hurts him, always hurts him, he's the only one.

Tim's the only one for now.

"Okay," Tim says.

And he could ask why. It's not that he doesn't know, because he does, he knows all of it, now he does know, not before, before he didn't, didn't fucking know anything, didn't see, he didn't look, he didn't notice, he just stood somewhere he could see him, just was somewhere near him. 

Now he knows.

So he doesn't need to ask, but he could.

And he would, were it not 4 a.m. Were they not tired and in bed and talking in the dark. Were clarity not the same as pain.

It's just sometimes it is too much.

 _He_ is too much.

So he doesn't ask, he says _okay._

"Okay," he says. "I'll see what I can do."

 _I can't fuck up_ , he thinks. _I won't._

_Not with this._

"Yeah?" Ginger asks.

It's not his future actions that he questions.

He never questions those.

"Yeah," Tim says. "I'll work my magic." 

He'll need to do just that. Invent new incantations. Cast fine nuclear fireballs. Wield swords like needles.

"Just don't worry," he says.

It's not that he doesn't like him worried. 

Because he does.

He does like him worried so much.

He likes him _broken._

He likes him broken and he's broken him.

It's just he asks himself and he asks him too, he asks him _why do you worry so much_ and he knows, of course, he fucking knows, he can feel it, he's inside him, he swallowed him, that's how he did it.

It's just this time - if it is this time - he doesn't want him to be worried.

Not about this.

"Just don't worry," Tim says. "Okay?" Ginger nods. And Ginger shrugs. This just might be too much to ask. He never asks anyway. He won't fuck up. He can't. "It won't be like it is with me." He'll make it better. He'll fucking kickstart a new universe if he has to. "You're a gift. Not food. It won't be like being skinned alive."

And it is not like that after this as well, it's different, because he's already done it, Ginger's skinned alive, he's worked his magic and he's worked his teeth, he'd eaten him and spat him out and now he's cooking him, he's eating him again, his hand in the pot with Ginger's meat, deep in the boiling waters of the ocean, he skins himself alive and it's way too easy, it doesn't hurt him, nothing hurts him like he needs it to, like he must be hurt, and he can't do it, it just can't compare, he can never hurt himself enough, can never hurt himself without hurting Ginger more, can't touch him and can't stop touching him, it is like that.

So he starts touching him, cutting into him and into his own body, diving deeper, pressing things inside both of them, spicing the bloodbroth that is boiling in the pot, he starts the voyage to the stars with the space cock lying there on the nightstand, he picks it up once they've kissed enough, once they've kissed for too many times, he picks up the glass one too and they do it, it might be then when they do it, that Friday, might be then, but he's not sure, because maybe they just fall asleep, not right then, of course, that would be absurd, he's just said _skinned alive_ and well, it's not the harshest thing he's ever said, he's said things that hurt Ginger so much, skinned him alive, he spoke in weapons, not in any language, so it's not absurd because of that, it just doesn't fit, but it might be then too, he is not sure.

It might also be that other time.

"... I fucking pushed you into it," he says that time.

It's not the first thing he says that time and it's not the harshest and it doesn't hurt him, not enough, he can never have enough, he's done more than enough, so much more, way too much, he talks about everything he's done, everything he's pushed him into and it's everything, he pushed him into every single thing, he doesn't know how not to, he always pushes and he causes pain.

They are the same entities, he and pain.

"... I fucking pushed you into it," he says to Ginger and Ginger's near him, next to him, he lives with pain, he loves it. "And I knew how much it hurt." 

Of course, he knew. That's how he did it.

"And I liked it."

Of course, he liked it. That's why he did it.

He wants. Then he does anything he wants.

And what he wants is pain.

He's pain.

"Being cruel to you."

More than that.

"Breaking you."

And more than that. He'd do more than that. If he only could.

"And I'm not sorry."

He doesn't want to fix things. He likes them ruined. He won't kickstart a new universe because of this. He quite likes their one. He likes being a toothy creature in the ocean. 

He is a monster.

"But pushing you away..." he says and pulls Ginger closer, closer to the pain. "That..." He pauses. It's still way too easy. "That I am sorry for."

So much. 

And more than that. 

He'd be sorry much more than that, if he only could.

He tries.

"Don't want to do that."

He doesn't want to do that when he _wants._

It's just sometimes, sometimes he doesn't. There were days when he didn't. There have been those days.

Dark, cold, coiling things inside his chest.

"Ever."

He has a room for those days.

"Not even an inch."

There is a door that leads to it, that doesn't let Ginger in, that doesn't let him out, that separates them.

By an inch.

It's not like he fucking wants it being there, is it.

This hurts a bit.

But just a bit.

It's not enough.

"Want you here."

Inside his chest.

A perfect, bleeding, gooey creature inside of his decaying heart.

"I am," the perfect, bleeding, gooey creature sitting right next to him says then.

They both know that.

They've talked about it. 

They were both around when it happened. When Tim put him there. When he was eating Ginger.

"Yeah," Tim says and takes his hand, his hand he's put on his decaying heart. "And I pushed you into it."

Inside of it.

"And I am a..."

Just a hungry shark.

Just pure pain.

He's pure pain, pure misery, he's been that for at least an hour and it is not enough. 

It's nothing.

A drop of blood in the vastness of the ocean.

"I'm..." he says.

Not sorry. Happy. Guilty. Undeserving. Blessed. Near him.

"Don't," Ginger whispers.

And he can't stop him. And he doesn't even try. He just sleeps next to that door that separates them.

He just wants to be near him.

He doesn't want him to be pure pain.

He could never hurt him. 

Not even when he enjoys it, when he wants it, he wants pain, he loves it, he's best friends with it, siblings, he is pain, he enjoys it, he fucking likes it anyway.

"Why not?" Tim asks.

He likes it anyway.

And it is not enough. By far. It's microscopic. Nothing.

And he could've said, Ginger could've said that this is not the first time they talk and it isn't, that he has heard it all before, that he knows this, of course, he knows this, he's near him, inside of him, loved by him.

Pure pain loves him.

He says nothing. He just gulps and licks his lips and looks at Tim, his eyes wet, Tim's pain his pain, Tim's pain hurting him, Tim's always hurting him, can do nothing else.

"Why not?" Tim asks again. "You did. So."

And he did, this is not the first time they talk, they've talked before, this is not the first time clarity hurts their eyes, their ears, this is not the first time they cry together.

"I..." Ginger says.

"Tell me," Tim says.

Pushes him.

"How did _you_ feel?"

Tortures him.

"When you thought I'd..." Breathes with him. Still fucking breathes with him. "I'd throw you away."

Breathes under water.

"Like junk," Tim says.

Knows how to hurt him.

"Like slime that stuck to my boots," Tim says.

Hurts him.

"Like you were nothing," Tim says.

Ginger says his name.

"Tim," he says.

He doesn't try to stop him. He tries to stop his pain.

"Yeah," Tim says. "How?"

He knows how. He was there. Well, sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes he ran away. But still, he knows.

He puts his heartless fingers on Ginger's face, smears his tears, he looks at him, he sees him, it isn't dark, they are on the couch, next to the TV, scenes that are of no concern to them playing on the screen, their worries spilling out, filling up the ocean, Tim gutting both of them, hurting them, causing pain.

"Tell me," Tim says. "How?"

And Ginger tells him.

"Dead," he says. 

Tim sees his face when Ginger says that.

"Yeah," he says. "So it is alright if I die a bit as well."

Ginger cries.

He's crying too, they've been shedding tears for at least an hour, Tim's been saying things, speaking weapons, he's been confessing sins, he said _I fucking pushed you into it_ , he said _I crushed your bones, tore your rib cage open, pulled your inc sac out_ , he said _I raped you, hit you, forced you into things, you said yes_ \- _I said yes_ , Ginger told him - _you said yes, but it meant nothing, you can't say no, can you_ \- _no_ , Ginger said - _I just did anything I wanted, I've eaten you and broken you, I've destroyed you, you're nothing, jelly, food, you're shit_ \- _I'm nothing_ , Ginger said, not that time, but that time is not the first time they talk - _you're just that, but not because you are that_ \- _because you aren't that_ , Tim said, _you are fucking perfect_ , that time too, he said it that time too - _you are nothing like it, it's me, all me, I've made you into nothing, I've fucking pushed you into it._

Hurt you.

Liked it.

Sorry?

No. No.

"I don't want that," Ginger says.

He didn't want that. What he wanted... Well, that _hurts_.

So little.

Nothing.

Just to be near him.

"No?" Tim asks and Ginger shakes his head, his face pressed into his palm, his tears cooling it.

He doesn't want him to die a bit.

Not even a bit.

Could never fucking hurt him, could he.

Just slap me, right.

"Okay," Tim says. "Alright. What do you want then?"

He knows what. He has his answers. He's asked him. He's pulled those answers out of him.

He knows everything.

It's just, well... 

Now they cry together.

"I..." Ginger says. "Hold me," Ginger says.

Right.

"Don't let me go," Ginger says, his face pressed into Tim's wet palm.

Tim wraps his wet palm around his throat.

"Like that?" he asks. "Even if it is like that?"

Ginger nods.

Of course, he fucking nods.

 _I almost fucking drowned you_ , Tim told him.

 _I love you_ , he told Tim.

Tim shakes his head. Tim chuckles. Tim wipes off his tears. Tim holds Ginger by his throat. Tim loves doing that. Loves it.

Tim touches it while their tears are getting dry.

Ginger breathes, softly, making sounds, sounds breaking, lets him do it, lets him in, his neck arching, his skin hot under Tim's fingers that are touching him.

Ginger's loved.

"Fuck," Tim says.

Tim's all teeth.

"Fuck," he says. "I love your fucking throat."

Tim's fingers want him, want to hurt him, it is like that with him, it is a lot, too much, he wants too much.

"I'd rip it open if I could," he says.

If he only could.

He sounds... Well, he sounds scary. And insane. Obsessed. Deranged. Bloodthirsty.

 _But you would_ , Ginger asked him, when he told him. Of course, he would. He's sick. He's poison.

He sounds scary, he's insane, he holds him by his throat and Ginger just leans into the touch, he doesn't run away, can't run away, afraid, knowing the truth, still there, waiting, he made him love the fear too.

"With my bare teeth," he says. 

To feel his mouth get full of blood. 

He already feels it, feels it all the time. But to really feel it.

He wants too much.

He gets even more.

"I wish they were sharp enough," he says.

I wish I could really eat you.

Hurt you every fucking second of your life.

"Just..." he says and finds Ginger's pulse, listens to it, feels it under his fingertips, and Ginger's scared, frightened, terrified.

Do I freak you out, right.

"Just bite into it," he says. 

"Gulp down your blood," he says.

Your screams, your tears, your pain.

All of it.

Tim smiles and then lets him go - he doesn't let him go, doesn't want to, can't, is not allowed, he's near him - lets him go just a little, just enough to kiss him, to look him in the eyes, to be seen too, to be sure he's seen for what he is.

"You know, I keep thinking, maybe I should cut you," Tim says and waits a little, it's an offer, not a order.

And if he thinks about it it's probably not that time and not even a Friday, because they're on the couch and that Friday they were in bed, because he's busy thinking vile things about Ginger's throat, he's distracted by it, he wants blood - he wants everything - and then he gets it, of course, he gets it, so maybe this is not when that Friday happens, maybe not, because then Ginger speaks.

"Okay," he says. "I... Can I..."

"Yeah," Tim says. "What?"

It's just a question, he knows it is just a question, it's clarity again, it's talking, seeing him for what he is, but it is _yes_ in any case, he could say _no_ , he's able to, but why would he, why would he refuse things, why would he refuse him.

"Is it..." Ginger says. "When. What is it like. When John does it to you," Ginger says, his tender, scared hand on Tim's thigh, fabric covering the scars, the scars he's seen, he's touched, the scars Tim showed him.

Showed off.

"Oh," Tim says and smiles. "Well, it's a very different dynamic that we have with him." He makes John gulp down pain. Makes him love it. "But." But hate him. "Amazing. It's amazing."

Ginger gulps.

Gulps down his own worries Tim's not yet swallowed.

He should've swallowed them.

"I'd..." Ginger says. "I'd like to... If you did that."

It's not only Ginger's questions. Things've progressed.

It's Ginger's incoherent invitations.

"Yeah?" Tim says.

 _Why_ , he wants to know. _Tell me_ , that's what he means.

He doesn't need to say it. Things've progressed. They've cried for so many times together.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Because... Because you do that."

It's just now that's not the only thing they do.

Together. Always closer. Near.

He wants to know how it feels. How _he_ feels. Know him.

And it is not that Friday, it is another time, because after Ginger says that Tim says _come on then_ and gives him his hand, they end up in the bathroom, Tim finding a knife that's sharp enough, sharper than his teeth, Tim on his knees and Ginger's naked, trembling slightly, his tender skin exposed, Tim cutting him, it's breadcrumbs, but he'll take them, he takes everything, there isn't much left anyway and they are seeds, he plants them, he plants a kiss right on the cut when it appears, the cut he makes on Ginger's tender skin, on his knees before him, close to his hip bone, he tastes his blood, it doesn't make him full, nothing ever does, but it's amazing, a little, gentle thing, it's delicate, he doesn't fuck it up, he licks the cut and bites into it, carefully, asks if it hurts, asks how it feels, looks up, blood on his lips, his teeth, his smile Ginger sees and trembles, it doesn't hurt, the cut hurts so little, they don't cry, they've cried so much, no tears left, Tim said he'd pushed him into everything, not into this - of course, into this as well, he pushed him down the road that led him here - and it doesn't hurt, _oh, really_ , Tim says and cuts him one more time, close to his hip bone, his fingers on the cut, his teeth too, careless this time, _how does it feel_ , he says, _I love you_ , Ginger says, _I love you so much_ , that's all he ever feels, it's everything, nothing else, he's pure love, he shakes and shivers, naked, his mouth open, not for Tim, just on its own, Ginger looking down, seeing him, Tim's face in blood, in him, Tim sucking him, his mouth open for him, for his cock, his blood, his flesh, his come, his body and his mind, his love he's gulping down, looking up and holding him, with his hands too, his hands stained, close to his hip bones, his fingers in the cuts, diving deeper, Tim's mouth on him, Tim is hungry, Ginger is inside him and he's still hungry, he hurts him, just breadcrumbs, but he hurts him, always hurts him, but now they are doing it together, everything together, bonding, in the same broth and boiling, both of the ocean, Tim giving things, finally giving things, pain and thrusts, pushes, electric jolts, pain's all that he can give, he's pain and pain's his love, Ginger's shaped by him to be in love with it, with him, Ginger's love confined inside of him, nuclear decay inside of him, color dying out on his lips, they aren't dying, they are breathing, mirrors for each other, so it is not that Friday, it's another day, but in truth it doesn't matter, it's the same, it happens often, sometimes it happens like this too, it's not about shit or about dildos, it's about how they feel, about feeling what they feel together.

So it's not that time, not that time when Tim cuts Ginger in the bathroom, when he accepts the invitation, and he doesn't cut him often, John cuts _him_ much more often, says he doesn't fucking like it and then loves it, gets pissed off at him, hates him, it's a different dynamic they enjoy - Tim enjoys - but sometimes Tim cuts Ginger too, not often, they are shit eaters, not vampires, what they enjoy - Tim enjoys - it isn't blood, so he doesn't cut him often, Ginger has so many scars to show, Ginger's scars are all inside him, microscopic, hidden, scared, even his scars are scared, they are invisible, but Tim still sees them, because they've spent so many nights exhausted, in the dark and talking.

So breadcrumbs don't scatter often, but this happens all the time, and maybe that Friday that Tim thinks of happens when Tim asks him if he's told anybody, not the things they talk about in the dark with clarity between them, not that, those things are hard to say, impossible to say, Tim doesn't know how he even can, well, he knows, it's because he tells him to, tells him _tell me_ and Ginger can't say _no_ , never could, so he says them, those things that are invisible, his scars, his words are scars, his words scar Tim, they hurt him and he doesn't like it - of course, he likes it, he fucking likes it anyway - not like this and not about this, _have you told anybody_ , Tim asks and what he means is _about me_ , not all of it, that is impossible to tell, but just that he exists, that they live together, that Tim makes awesome breakfasts and smokes all the time and speaks in annoying metaphors and so on, because he's told everybody, okay, not everybody, some people he hasn't told yet, though he will, some people he just doesn't talk to, doesn't know them or nothing like it ever comes up in the conversation he's having with them, but when it does he talks so much, boasting, showing off, both his personal tormentor and his squid, both John and Ginger, doesn't say anything that's none of anybody's business, that is his sin, his crime, that's gentle, tender, delicate, that Ginger's hands feel like loving boiling plasma on his body, Ginger hugging him all the fucking time, shifting closer, doesn't say anything about stuff people ask, doesn't know what to answer, doesn't care about it, _what does it matter where you were born_ \- in the warm waters of the ocean - _what does it matter when John picked up his first guitar_ \- in the fucking cradle - _that doesn't matter_ , Tim says, _I talk about things that are important, I talk about your awesome cock_ , Tim says, _your cock matters_ , Tim says, Ginger smiling at him, laughing softly, what matters is that he's happy, so lucky, he thanks the cruel ancient gods for all the turns he's taken on the road that led him there, he talks about that and about things they've talked about, books Ginger read and they discussed while Tim was cooking breakfast and Ginger was getting in the way, statues they touched all sorts of parts of, touched together, some new albums Ginger bought and listened to and could not shut up about, John's tunes and John's feathery attire and John's whining, things like that, he tells everybody things like that, they are spilling out of him, they are always there with him and he isn't modest, he's proud, happy, lucky, he boasts about them.

"No," Ginger says.

"Oh," Tim says. "Why?"

"Nobody..." Ginger says. "Nobody asks."

the same rights, protections, benefits, and the same responsibilities, obligations, duties, ha

Ginger asks, asks his questions, meets new people or meets people that he's met before and asks them questions, quality of their sleep and shoelaces, biography related stuff, listens to them, smiles at them, but nobody asks him anything, Tim doesn't ask him anything, he could, but he knows the answer and they'll cry, he didn't plan to cry, they've cried too much, they have been smiling, Tim talking about his vanity and his chatty mouth, so he doesn't, he asks just one thing, asks about John.

"And about John?" he asks.

Have you told anybody about John.

John isn't pain. Not to him. Not yet. And even later. Not like that. Not like _him_.

Also, John calls him, talks to him, says things like _say hi to your friends, say hi to your distant fucking relatives_ , though not like that, John knows those people's names and Tim doesn't, Tim talks to him too, of course, it's just what he says when he talks to him is _god, shut up already and send me nudes._

sd delta 11:20: lax aa 9:45

"Yeah," Ginger says.

Tim chuckles. Doesn't cry. Not then.

"Oh," he says. "So what, am I like your dirty secret?"

They don't cry that time, they laugh and hug, laugh, though they've been talking, and Tim is not a dirty secret, he's more like a dirty open book, dirty, chatty, open audiobook Ginger's still somehow intrigued by.

So maybe that Friday Tim is thinking of happens when Ginger questions him, asks for bedtime stories, first ones rated G, then lewd ones, the path that Tim's traversing full of filth, ocean polluted, Tim's propensity to enjoy painful things coming up, _you slap yourself_ , Ginger says, meaning how did it happen that he does it and Tim tells him, tells Ginger stories of things long, long past, it was so long ago it is funny to even think about it, think of himself like that, but anyway, in the past he had some friends, some pals, some dudes he used to hang out with, he was twenty something, he fucked a guy, almost dated him - he didn't really, he doesn't date, he either serves people or devours them or both, but mostly he just fucks them - he liked him, he was, _fuck, donno, kinda like John, but in the 80s_ , he says and Ginger smiles, he stops smiling when Tim goes on, his friends, his pals, some dudes he used to hang out with, they had opinions that he disagreed with strongly, opinions about guys like John, like that guy that he was fucking when he was twenty something in the 80s, dumb jokes, not about him exactly, but still, and also what the fucking hell, so he voiced his disagreement, was very impolite, angry, open, professed his love for cocks, was told it's not like this with him, he's not like this, he's allowed, he didn't look the part - _I kinda did_ , he says and smirks and Ginger laughs, he's seen the pictures, fucking asked to see them, _I kinda did_ , Tim says, _but then again, it was the 80s, everybody did_ \- he was okay, a normal guy, _fuck you_ , he thought, got angry, really angry, those were his friends, the anger boiled in him for a few more days and then he snapped, was very impolite, no reason, was riled up, riled them up - _nasty_ , he says, _god, was I nasty, baby fucking monster_ , he says, Ginger smiling while he sneers at things long past - there was a fight, he started it, got smacked around, shit was kicked out of him and shit spilled out of them, those dudes he used to hang out with, changed their unfair, biased opinion of his person, stripped him of his title, he was a normal guy no longer, he laughed, laughed shaking on the ground, smacked, beaten, kicked, stained with blood and cracking up, pathetic idiots staring at him, at a loss of words and punches, his outlook on cocks and sodomy still standing, Tim giving them the middle finger while he was lying beaten on the ground, felt good, well, bad, because fuck that, but good, full of adrenaline, kicked and laughing.

Ginger listens to the story, licks his lips, then his, says he's sorry, _not your fault_ , Tim says, _not even my fault for once_ , he says, they laugh, Tim asks a question, knowing the answer, _no_ , Ginger says, _never_ , Ginger says, _I mean, I didn't..._ , he says, _yeah, you're a virgin_ , Tim says, happy, lucky, he thanks the ancient gods, the faggoty greek gods he thinks must find his life so entertaining, his cock feats, his sodomy achievements, he thanks them, because well, he says Ginger is a virgin, but he jokes and Ginger's not, he's always known that and also he asked for numbers, just out of curiosity, just because he could, because why not, he asked and then he laughed, shaking on the couch, Ginger telling him to fuck off, pushing him off it, it was later, after this, some other day, maybe on Friday too, he doesn't care much about days of the week.

He also doesn't like these scars, and Ginger says _no, never_ and he's happy, that might have been too much, too much for him to swallow, he doesn't like these scars, there're so many, he likes those he leaves on him with a knife, they don't hurt, he likes those he leaves inside him with his teeth, they hurt, of course, they hurt, they aren't even scars, they are open wounds and he likes them, of course, he does, he's a monster, grew up to be a shark, but he's happy there aren't scars like that, because fuck that, fuck that shit.

fous

foutons

foutez

faire foutre

He's always been very passionate about fornication.

"And then what?" Ginger asks.

"Ah," Tim says, he's got distracted, he goes back, tells the story. "Well, that felt good. Got stuck with me. And then I figured I didn't need the idiots or arguing with them to feel that again. So yeah, I just went ahead. Took matters into my own hands."

"Oh," Ginger says. "You just..."

"Yeah," Tim shrugs. "Just slapped myself." Ginger frowns and he chuckles. "Okay, not just. I mean, I'm good, but not that good. Had to study first. Trial and error. Hit and miss." He showcases his heartless instruments, his fingers moving. "Then I reached proficiency," he continues. "Came like a motherfucker. Invited willing friends with helping hands. Came again. And hasn't stopped ever since."

Then...

Then it is not that Friday, definitely not, then Ginger questions him again, incoherent, Tim still knowing what he means and smirking, saying _oh, cock_ , saying that it was an accident and it was an accident, it happened later, he made a pact with pain by then, spent his free time with it, celebrated holidays, fell in love with it, he almost _dated_ it, and he was threatened with it, it was an empty threat, a toy threat, made of plush, a part of the game he agreed to play, not really his thing, playing, unless it is about music, but _why not,_ he thought, why would he refuse, he didn't and he was threatened with it, like something inconceivable, and well, he hadn't thought of it, had been busy with some other things, but then he thought about it, _why not_ , he thought and did it right there, on the spot, did it himself and sneered and then again, until he came, he came slapping himself, slapping his cock, and has never stopped.

He doesn't stop that evening too, he moves, gets up, pulls off his clothes, sits down again, Ginger ends up kneeling on the floor, but a bit later, first Tim sits down and kickstarts the show, _slapstarts_ it, he sits on the couch, facing Ginger, teeth on display, Ginger looking at him, seeing all of him, Ginger's seen all of that before, he's slapped his cock so many times, he's in a relationship with pain, it's not as long as the one he has with cocks, but it is deeper somehow, there's deeper meaning, he adds some more of it and Ginger watches him, exhales and inhales sharply, Tim slaps his cock, once, two times, three and four, gets hard, grins, says _magic_ , slaps his own grinning face, starts breathing out fire, shakes at the proficient blows he's delivering, takes Ginger's hand and makes him touch the sore skin, the open wounds, bites his lips, enjoys it, slaps all the shit he's swallowed over the last one, two, three, four months out of himself, so cruel, knowing no mercy, ruthless and in love with it, in love with pain, his obsessive predilections observed along with teeth, apparent, outward, it is a step forward that he takes, further down the path, _are you counting_ , he asks, lips bruised, but in a smirk, he is in love with pain and Ginger is in love with maths, Ginger laughs, can't help it, eyes wet, Tim's too, Tim licks his own tears off his own fingers, offers them to Ginger, light, tender kisses on his fingertips, Ginger's mouth wet, warm, soft, open, Tim open his, lets out phonemes, _fucks_ , once, two times, three and four, swears at the blows, eyes rolling back, it's misery and it's delight, all bursting out of him, nuclear explosions on his open wounds, his own fingers on his sore skin, caressing the ache, causing more of it, that is all he ever does, it gets too good and he gets up, unsteady feet, a warhead with a drinking problem, adrenaline spilling out of him, Tim feeling like he's going to spill too and soon, come like a motherfucker, towering over Ginger, staring in his eyes that are suffering the show, Ginger suffering with him, it's not too much, it's not enough, what is ever, but not too much, _don't worry_ , Tim says, shaking, his own heartless hands sending electric jolts down his body and up his body, Ginger's tentacles on his shaking body, close to his hip bones, Ginger on his knees before him, neither of them says a single word, they've talked so many times, they follow the dynamic they enjoy, the fundamental laws, Tim letting out rumbles, his fingers pliers, pliers on his sore skin and on his tortured cock, Tim's tears on Tim's face and on Ginger's face, falling down on it, gravity propelling them, gravity and a machine gun of Tim's hand Tim keeps slapping his own face with, slapping his own face with passion, Ginger's soft, warm, wet mouth on his cock, around the tip, fucking _timid_ next to Tim's cruel pliers, Tim applying force and his germane experience, determined to turn fables into real life events, catastrophical events inside his chest, fairy dust in his lost head, fairy dust and Ginger's moans he awaits his fate with, quiet, muffled, full of affection and not for cocks, for Tim, Ginger's fate not so terrible for once, Ginger's fate is to be surrounded by the everlasting fission, is to be confined within him, to accept him in his loving arms and with his loving lips, is to see him, see him for what he is, he is a coming shark, he gives himself another slap, there're so many in his generous possession, his pliers squeezing, Ginger's tongue boiling plasma on his cock, Tim's boiling come on Ginger's tongue, Ginger swallowing around him, moaning, eyes wet, Tim staring at him from above, Tim's a reflective surface, they are close, they are close to Tim's pain he loves, they are together.

There couldn't have been much more reflection after that.

After that Tim's a drunken warhead, he's depleted, collapsing on the floor, on Ginger, Ginger's wet eyes black, completely black, no light in them, just Tim, Tim's hand pressed over him, his cock, between his hip bones, he's hard, he arches up and pushes into him, into Tim's palm, gives it to him, Tim doesn't have to tell him, Tim is silent, no phonemes, just blood falling down on Ginger's face, Tim's beaten snout right above him, Ginger moaning, mouth open, whole body gooey, liquid, helpless, in waves of motion, waves of Tim's glowing poison rolling over him, Ginger floating, following the current, coming, spilling in Tim's palm, licking at Tim's palm, Tim's hand pressed over him, his lips, his mouth, tongue, gentle, tender kisses on the stains, on traces of Ginger's own pleasure, on Tim's sore skin, it's a lot, too much for his fingertips, he feels worshipped when Ginger lickes at them, he's worshipped, he's an ancient vicious horny deity, he's pain, he's terror, he's in love with him.

He's floating in his love with him.

There's no more reflection after this, just dreams, right there on the floor, passed out, breaths intermingled, they are pure misery when it is morning, both of them, two broken backs, Tim's bruised, beaten face, Ginger's chafed shoulderblades, Tim's enduring cock, old scars, new scars, open wounds, all intermingled.

And it isn't Friday.

And it isn't Friday when they examine their scars again, it's not that time, though it could have been, because shit is involved, they are involved with shit, they are in bed, it isn't dark, days long, it's not yet sunset, curtains open, Tim's hands are on Ginger's broken back, it was a back rub, but now it isn't anymore, it's Ginger being liquid, molten, helpless underneath him, he is that good and Ginger's naked, Tim's pulled his clothes off him, Ginger's hard, Tim has been near him, fingers on his spine, lips on his vertebrae, each one of them, one by one, he loves his back, not hungry - he is always hungry - just touching it, loves touching it, his hands on it, his hands that Ginger loves, he pulls his hair, digs his fingers into Ginger's shoulderblades, plutonium liquid in his chest, his chest molten, burning hot, still like that, fission everlasting, he grabs Ginger's butt and spreads his cheeks, his fingertip on Ginger's hole, he shivers, Ginger shivers, _what, still_ , Tim asks and laughs, Ginger says _fuck off_ and lifts his hips and lets him in, his own hands, white, sweaty hands on his butt now, pliant goo, so open for him, Tim laughs again, not really harsh, brushes his fingers over his ass, hears his own name, his name Ginger whispers into the pillow, his name he moans out.

It's not that time and it isn't Friday, they reminisce about things long past when they are done, Tim is not done yet, Tim goes on forever, not in any hurry, days long, he just keeps touching Ginger's hole that's on display for him - it is for him - while Ginger's squirming, pillow wet, Tim is a deity and it is a sacrifice, squid sacrifice, the squid alive and kept in place by his own tentacles, taking it, but not lying still, quivering, can't help himself, just fucks the mattress, no release, Tim won't release him, Tim'll hold him, won't let him fall, he'll pull him down, he pulls his hair, rubs at his hole, it goes on forever, Tim doesn't stop and Ginger sobs, his shoulders shaking, Tim doesn't stop, he ups the game, he's toying with him, playing with the food, this is his thing, his element, he is a fucking shark, his snout now pressed into him, his mouth on his hole, fucks him with his tongue he knows how to use not only for the incantantions, doesn't say anything this early evening, doesn't need to, Ginger knowing what to do, can't do much else, he trembles, comes, he gets undone, yielding, supple plasma, fluctuating, whole body in convulsions, electric jolts on Tim's tongue, turmoil and then rest, all movement dying out.

"I'm not done," Tim says then, he isn't done, almost undone too, but not yet, wants to be undone, it's fair, wants to devour, it is not, but he's careless, that's what he wants, Ginger turns over slowly, head lost, face wet, stomach stained with come, thighs stained with come, hole covered in saliva, open, he holds it open, holds his legs and lifts them, Tim smiles, it is all teeth by then, loves him like that, loves him broken, impossible not to, impossible, showing what he's done to him, himself to him, his open wounds to him, all of himself to him, Tim beats off, takes what's on offer, it's everything, looks at him, breath catching, explosions taking it away from him, he catches him, he's his prey, his food, his sacrificial squid, puts his fingers in him, Ginger lets him, lets out sounds, says his name, Tim fucks his hole, has his way with it, the way that led them here, pulls them out and fucks his mouth with them, makes him think of shit, think he is shit, think that and like it, think that and feel happy, wanted, loved, think that while sucking on Tim's fingers as a worship, soft moans and wet eyes that are fixed on him, that are the end of him, this is the end, he's done, undone, he comes, Ginger sucking on his fingers he fucked his hole with, his legs lifted, head lifted, hole stained with Tim's poisonous saliva, Tim staring down at him, not a mirror, he's a menace, he's unwrapped the gift, tore it apart, still doing that, he falls apart as well, nuclear breadcrumbs scatter, he comes, pulled down, he falls down, sinks into the warm plasma of the ocean, the ocean hugging him with its tender loving tentacles, waves rippling the surface, no reflection.

It isn't Friday and it's not reflection, it's nostalgia, it's similar, they are on their sides, they face each other, they are smoking, Tim is reminded of things he did in foreign lands, reminded of the past, _god did I want you_ , he says, he lost his head, it was full of fairy dust, kaleidoscope of fins, _you surrendered_ , he says, he took the carte blanche from him, hurt him, _that's when I really started eating you_ , he says, _do you remember_ , he then asks.

Ginger nods, he does remember, he was alive when Tim was eating him, Ginger smiles, _you were happy_ , Tim says, _yes_ , Ginger says, he was happy too, it was magic, he was spellbound, _I hurt you_ , Tim says, _did I hurt you_ , Ginger asks.

"What?" Tim asks, laughs out, it's ridiculous, absurd, he could never hurt him.

"When I... When I freaked out. When you touched me. In Berlin. Touched my..."

His hole he thinks is full of shit.

Him who is disgusting. Disgusted with himself.

He stops - stops speaking - and Tim looks at him.

Clarity is pain, but he is a sincere monster.

"Yeah," he says.

It's sunset, days are long, lights coloring Ginger's black eyes.

"I'm s---" Ginger says.

"Shut up," Tim says. He's not. "Yeah, you hurt me. That time. Just once. For twenty seconds."

It was more than twenty seconds, two years of cold winds inside his chest, nuclear winter descended on his heart, it was maybe five or six or seven minutes, they smoked, sitting on the bed, Ginger couldn't speak, Tim said it was okay, spoke in a foreign voice, it did hurt, but he made peace with it, made a pact with it, agreed to everything right there, on the spot.

"I loved you," Tim says. "God, did I love you."

He shakes his head.

Ginger's dumb head is on the pillow.

The pillow is wet.

 _Don't cry for me_ , Tim thinks and doesn't say it.

 _Cry for me_ , he's said before. Loves him crying.

He doesn't say anything about winter, he could, it's pain, but so what, it's not enough, just brief seconds and he enjoys it anyway, he could, but he doesn't really need to, soft tentacle is on his chest, on his disaster of a heart, his own hand on Ginger's face, wiping off the tears, they don't really need to say all of this, but they do now, now they do talk.

"You didn't think I did," Tim says.

 _Couldn't_ think.

Ginger nods, moving his dumb head on the wet pillow.

"It was..."

Ah.

That again.

"Absurd."

Tim chuckles.

"Pathetic idiot," he says. "Thought it would be over soon, huh?"

Thought that. 

A miserable throwaway. 

A happy one.

Just for twenty seconds.

Just those brief weeks of timid, quiet happiness in foreign lands.

Ginger laughs too, it sounds painful.

It is never over.

"It won't," Tim says. "I can't stop."

It is a threat, a promise, a prediction, it's truth, it's clarity, he is sincere, he's all of that.

They kiss, they smoke, they face each other.

"How did you feel?" Tim asks.

"Uh?"

"When you freaked out," Tim says.

Tim puts his fingers in his mouth, covering them with saliva.

"How do you feel?" Tim asks, his fingers now on their way inside of Ginger's hole, because even though he said nothing, his intentions were quite clear, and what he intends to do he can do, because Ginger's let him in, he's spread his legs, he's bent his knee, they are on their sides, Ginger's on the cutting board, Tim's waiting for his answers.

It is never over.

"Tell me," he says, he's not impatient and days are long and he already knows, it's just his teeth are sharp, it's just Ginger's eyes are closed, sunset expelled from them, pain coloring his face, twisting it, it's just it's beautiful.

"Dirty," Ginger breathes out.

Horrible. 

But so beautiful.

"More," Tim says.

He should've swallowed these scars sooner.

"I just," Ginger says. "Just always fucking think there's something there." That's not all. "And that you'll see it." Oh, he's seen it, he's seen all of it. "And... And you'll... Fuck."

That pillow won't ever be completely dry again.

"I'll what?" Tim asks, Ginger eyes still closed, the fear on his face awashed with tears. "Realize what I've been touching all this time?"

_What._

It isn't shit that he's referring too.

"Understand it was all an accident? A terrible mistake?"

Like he's ever, ever been this sensible.

"Throw up? Scream _please, somebody get this filth off me?_ "

Like he would say _please._

"Flush you down the drain where you belong?" 

He feels contractions going through Ginger's hole with his fingertips and with his knuckles.

He's deep in him.

"Come to my senses and throw you away?"

He utters weapons. He has his answers. He's known this for so long. His knowledge is his power. His power is an arsenal.

It isn't _no_ that he hears next.

Of course, it's not.

It's _yes_.

It's horror that's all over Ginger's face.

"Fuck," Tim says.

He can stomach this.

He pulls his fingers out.

Ginger shudders. Forces his own eyes open. 

His mouth's open too. 

He's always been very fucking easy, hasn't he.

No words needed. 

Tim still says them, not because he's cruel - he is cruel, not because he's hungry - he is hungry, but because he can.

Ginger have managed too, they've had these conversations, they've talked, not only in the dark, he's said that too, spoke in pain, in misery, in open wounds, it hurts him, being hurt, breaks him, being broken, it's hard for him, for Tim it's easy, well, not exactly easy, it's horror, pure horror, but he's horror too and a bigger one, much bigger one.

So he gives shape to Ginger's worries.

"And now?" Tim asks. "How do you feel now?"

There was a change, his fingers've travelled, Ginger's soft, warm, wet mouth on them, soft, warm, wet moans left it and words can not, there's just his hot, tender breath on Tim's fingertips.

It doesn't matter. Tim has his answers.

First of all, it hurts.

"How does it feel?" Tim asks. "If you subtract the pain."

Ginger moans and licks his shit off Tim's fingers.

That branch of maths might not have been invented yet.

Imaginary things.

"Like this is how it should be?" 

And cries.

"Like this is where your place is?"

And cries.

"Like this is what you deserve for _soiling_ me?"

And cries.

Tim swears, he's almost crying too, he pulls his fingers out, leaves Ginger's mouth, sits up, grabs Ginger by his calves and folds him in half, holds him open.

"You know it's not fucking true, do you?" he asks, he bends over, puts his face between his cheeks, his mouth on him, his tongue in him, puts his inner weapon into what he's doing, he's saying nothing, asking nothing, he could've, not right now, but a few seconds later, but he already knows, he knows how this feels, how Ginger feels, like this is wrong, impossible, illegal, shouldn't happen, like he isn't going down on him, like he is putting himself down, he is a degraded god, a drunken horny god who just tripped over and fell on him, the world turned upside down with his fall, things that cannot happen in their universe becoming something usual, like a singularity.

"Do you?" Tim asks a few seconds later.

He wants to hear the answer.

Ginger gulps. Closes his eyes. Face twists. Lips twitch. He nods and shrugs. He's scared. It's fear that's all over Ginger's face.

He can't say _no_.

But it's not a _yes_.

"Fuck," Tim says and lets him go and then holds him, hugs him, cups his face, breathes in his breath. "I love you, Ginger."

He's almost kissing him.

"Fucking love yourself with me."


	5. The influx of ideas

  
Tim puts out his eighth cigarette of that day in the ashtray in his car.

  
Tim puts out his cigarette in the ashtray in his car, gets out and knocks, John opening the door and letting him in, greeting him with eyeshadow and glitter.

Tim puts out four more cigarettes in the ashtray that is balancing on the armrest of the couch next to a guitar he holds in his hands, first sitting there like a blond scum bastard and trying to outshred the feathery virtuoso in a sequence of befittingly arrogant, but futile attempts, then abandoning this competitve behaviour and engaging in an even more obnoxious type of musical activity, interrupting John's sophisticated tunes with increasingly silly bullshit, John frowning for a few minutes and then starting to giggle, joining in and shaking his head to the stupid rhythms, his hair swinging and obscuring his happy face.

When they finally stop playing after every atom in the universe takes its rightful contemporary place Tim puts the cigarette package on the bed, and they both go on a little hunt, John leading their wolfpack into the wilderness like an eager pup he is and Tim staying behind and giving advice, premonition tingling his skin covered with silvery fur. Some time later they locate the tentacle dildo John still feels very possessive about, and Tim carries it to the bathroom to perform his cleaning duties, while John brings some other necessary items to the bedroom where their sexual sham is taking place.

Then they lose their clothes and get hard in the process. Tim also gets stuffed with the dildo, lying there in front of John on his back, his legs thrown wide open, the severed tentacle screwed into his hole by John's talented hand. 

Tim puts out his thirteenth cigarette of that day on his own skin, marking the tender tissue of his inner thigh and hissing, pressing the butt into the meat.

"Fuck," John says, closing his eyes for a second, his talented hand gripping the dildo tight.

"Relax," Tim says, smirking and lighting up another cigarette, making his own penetrative efforts and rocking his hips. "We're just warming up here."

He puts out his fourteenth cigarette that is only half shrinked in size on the spot right next to the previous combustion site, gritting his teeth and admiring both John's wrinkled face and his startled fingers, John digging them deeper into Tim's other thigh, taking in the sight, somewhat less entranced in his observation than Tim is in his, but still looking inspirational enough, his other hand moving steadily, providing Tim with anal encouragement.

"Fuck," Tim spits out and writhes, putting out his fifteenth cigarette that shouldn't be even counted as such, because he's barely taken a drag before it is vanquished on a new area alloted for destruction.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John gasps out, staring at Tim's psychotic hand combusting the underside of his even more demented cock, this time enchanted just as much as Tim is, his own skillful extremity that's filling up Tim's rather mentally disordered hole with the artificial cock getting more and more frenzied too, his breathing loud, his pupils blown, his flawless marble shell cracked and damaged, Tim's hissing sneering mouth full of blood.

"Give me another one," Tim hurries out, spitting out that radioactive liquid, his body fiery, his breathing laboured, his eyes rolling up into his boiling skull, his overheating metal casing in urgent need of further epithelial massacre.

His intact thigh gets reluctantly released, John's trembling hand grabbing the package and pulling out Tim's sixteenth cigarette, Tim snatching it away, his bloody mouth momentarily filled with smoke, his frantic mind filled with thermonuclear intent.

"Fuck, no," John whispers in a broken voice, shaking his head and signifying his refusal, his hair swinging and obscuring his horror-stricken face, Tim's mental hand wrapped around Tim's deranged cock again, Tim taking hasty drags, his thumb circling the intended target.

"Fuck, yes," Tim objects and chuckles, a cheerful catastrophical event he is.

John bites his lips and hyperventilates.

Tim puts out the best cigarette of that day on the very tip of his batshit crazy cock. 

Then Tim's most rabid dreams come true.

Tim wraps his legs around John's furious perfection of a body once his hole is free of severed body parts. Tim stares at John's angry shattered face above him, John hammering inside him. Tim listens to John's battle cry with a sneer, John pouring his insults down on him, words gushing out of his mouth and hitting Tim's blissful snout. Tim laughs maniacally until John caulks his yap, his wrathy hand pressing on Tim's sharp bloodthirsty teeth. Tim comes in delightful anguish, his tortured cock steaming on his stomach. John comes in Tim's enthusiastically fucked hole. John comes like a sadistic motherfucker. John makes Tim proud.

That is followed by several minutes of conjoint shaking.

Then John puts out his very first cigarette on Tim's heaving chest that's full of deadly love and purring poison. 

Well, first he coughs and whines and says he's never taking anything like that in his picky mouth again. 

"Right, your lips were meant for different things," Tim says, most definitely having exactly what John doesn't want in his promiscuous trap and almost dropping it a second later, cursing in his pained surprise and chuckling afterwards.

Then he occupies that facial area of his by kissing John's astounding hands, John opting for another filling and chewing on his endless goddamn cookies.

Tim doesn't feel like ever stopping.

  
A few hours later Tim puts his hand over his mouth, muffling his wounded vocalizing, wishing for an additional dexterous body part, worrying about his eyeballs, feeling like they are about to explode, his other hand busy holding his batshit crazy and very much burnt cock, Tim towering over the toilet, relieving himself off liquid waste, whimpering pathetically at the penile misery.

Tim puts out his last cigarette of that day in the ashtray, his eyes travelling over Ginger's passed out form, his mind filling with brilliant ideas, his personal squid generating his heat next to him nonethewiser.

  
The next morning his personal squid stares at him and his roasted stick, wide-eyed and vibrating.

"Come on," Tim says, bringing a cigarette he's smoking to his lips, Ginger's eyes darting up and following its trajectory. "It's gonna heal soon. And I am not making this delectable state of things permanent. The time to act is now."

Ginger glances at his cock and then at the cigarette he's holding again. 

"What?" Tim says, exhaling the fumes. "Are you gonna quit smoking now or something? We should patent this solution then."

Ginger laughs softly. Then his hand moves slowly, hovering in the air, his motions uncertain.

"Can I touch it?" 

Urticina columbiana

"Sure," Tim nods. "Let me help you."

He grabs Ginger's fearful tentacle and puts it on his tortured cock, Ginger's thumb landing on the aching spot, Tim baring his teeth at the sensation, Ginger's lungs getting full of oxygen in a positvely urgent fashion, both of them cursing simultaneosly.

"How much does it hurt?" Ginger asks, his hand trembling slightly, words interrupted by the air fluctuating in his throat.

Tim sneers.

"A lot," he says, putting his cigarette out on the insensitive non-living surface. "Which is why I am offering this. It's effortless excruciation that is gonna happen no matter what. We should use this situation to our benefit."

Ginger shakes his head, no doubt overwhelmed by the wisdom of Tim's reasoning.

"Also, it is sick and disgusting," Tim submits another line of his proposal. "I feel like I am contractually obligated to go through with it."

Ginger snorts.

"And after we're done being nasty we can go somewhere and pretend we're normal people, if you want," Tim cajoles him.

Ginger sighs.

"Okay," he says, and Tim gets up in a sharp motion, dragging him into the bathroom and feeling energized, the dull morning hours immediately becoming blessed.

  
" _Come on_ ," Tim then has to say again, addressing his stupid burnt cock that won't release the fluid that will bring him his beloved misery.

He bends before that, gripping the water tank, and even earlier than that he sits on the toilet, restoring Ginger's somewhat alarmed erection, sucking his cock into his mouth and humming impatient noises at him. Then, when his task is finished and Ginger's awesome cock is ready to be used accordingly, he gets up and bends over the toilet like a question mark with fingers up its ass, and Ginger puts his fingers up his ass, his diligent, wieldy, accommodating fingers, stretching Tim, and Tim is whistling, Ginger in opposition to his nonchalant attitude, his opposition voiced, but timidly, and shaped, but it is simply his sweaty palm on Tim's bent back, and it is not long-lasting, because once he is done stretching Tim - once Tim says that he is done, he is so keen to start already - Tim gets full of his hard, yet yielding cock, and he spends some seconds appreciating it being inside him, those seconds very much on par with ones he's attmepting to bring about a bit later.

" _Come on_ ," Tim says, in opposition to his bladder's petulance, and wriggles on Ginger's cock, not making a single thing easier for himself by that, but could really any other action be expected from him, he isn't maltreated, after all, so why wouldn't he at least get fucked.

3/19 13:30 Alana Annenberg

Tim gets fucked and properly at that the moment that the liquid waste hits the bowl of the toilet, presenting him with his sweet, sick, much desired pain, searing his burnt skin, and Ginger fucks him, soothing another kind of itch of Tim's, pushing in and out of his hole, and they function like a clockwork, like a team, both knowing the importance of good timing, it's only Tim's agonizing piss that makes a mess, hitting now not only the bowl of the toilet, but also the toilet itself and everything around it and Tim's bare feet, because Tim's fucked thoroughly and duly, just like he should be, and he is pushing back on Ginger's cock as well, for rhythmic support, he's adding whining, hissing and some swearing, and Ginger joins him eagerly in this type of peroration, the shared noises echoing in their ears, Tim's verbal stimulation he directs at Ginger to make him give it to him hard reaching Ginger's auditory system too, Ginger doing what he's been told to do and then again, when Tim's bladder empty, when pain stops shooting through his crazy cock, Tim tells Ginger to give him more, because it hurts a lot, but doesn't hurt enough, not yet, and Ginger catches Tim's dangling cock between his sweet, gentle, very welcome fingers and jerks him off, thumbing the sore tip, because Tim says _fucking touching it_ and _fuck, fuck, fuck, yes_ , gritting his teeth and grinding back on Ginger's cock, and thanks to him and thanks to that Tim comes with a pathetic yelp that sounds positively _yummy_ and who gives a fuck that it is autophagy, Tim doesn't, Tim just clenches tight and thanks to that and thanks to him Ginger comes too, filling his hole with quite gratifying junk and his ear with moaning out the three short letters of his name, and that moan sounds as grateful as it always does.

  
Then they don't go anywhere and stay at home, a sick fuck and another pretty unhealthy bastard, they sit on the couch and smoke and read Tim's books, and the unhealthy bastard looks at every cigarette the sick fuck lights up that day, and the sick fuck himself drinks fucking gallons of the unhealthy bastard's green fucking tea and runs to the bathroom almost every hour, time after time returning to the room wearing a massive sneer and met there by the unhealthy bastard wearing no pants and his blushing smile, because they aren't normal people and that's no secret, they both are very much unwell.


	6. What are you?

  
"Fuck, Tim."

  
What are you?

  
"Fuck, Tim", he says and moans, looks at him. 

And kisses him.

  
What are you? What are you? What are you?

  
"Hey," Tim says, opening his eyes, and he smiles.

Hums.

  
What are you?

  
It's nine in the morning.

  
What are you? What are you? WHAT ARE YOU?

  
Ten.

  
What are you?

  
Eleven.

  
What are you?

  
Afternoon.

  
What are you? WHAT ARE YOU? What are you?

  
"Hey, Tim," John says. "Wake up. Fm or Am7?"

  
_What._

  
What are you?

  
5 p.m.

  
What are you? What are you? What are you, Tim?

  
_Tim._

  
Seven.

  
What are you?

  
Sunday. 

  
What are you? What fucking are you, Tim?

  
Sunday, 10 a.m.

  
What are you?

  
WHATAREYOUWHATAREYOUWHATAREYOUWHATAREY

  
"Do you need anything?" he asks, standing in the doorway with his wallet and the car keys.

  
"Tim," he says.

  
_What._

  
What are y---

  
"Cigarettes," Tim says.

  
What are you? What are you? What a---

  
Ginger smiles at him.

  
Ginger smiles at John, drying his hair with the towel.

John giggles and sticks his tongue out at him.

  
What is he? What fucking is he? What are you?

  
What are you, Tim?

  
July.

  
What are you, Tim?

  
Berlin.

  
What are you, Tim?

  
August.

  
What are you, Tim?

  
New York.

  
What are you, Tim?

  
September.

  
What September? What are you, Tim? What fucking are you, Tim?

  
October. Then November. Then December.

  
Happy birthday, Tim.

  
What are you, Tim? What are you? What are you? WHAT ARE YOU? WHATAREYOU? WHATAREYOU? WHATAREYOU?

What are you? No, seriously, what are you?

  
What are you, Tim?

  
whatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatareyouwhatarey

  
What are you?

  
What fucking are you?

  
What.

  
What are you?

  
What. Are. You.

  
Hey, Tim.

  
Answer me.

  
What are you? What are you? What. Are. You.

  
What are you?

  
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What are you?

  
_Tim._


	7. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back

  
"So are you guys still fucking?" Brian asks, and Tim coughs so violently he feels like he's going to turn inside out here.

"What?" he asks in his turn, when the earthquake stops tearing his body apart, and learns a lot in the next several minutes.

  
They are at Brian's place and both of them are drunk on absinthe, and not even a little bit, they are more like close to wasted, and Brian's been bitching for hours, both about his private and his professional life, and Tim's been consoling him for exactly as long, occupying the couch while Brian roamed about the room, busying his mouth with concerned questions and words of friendly support instead of fumes that are going to give him lung cancer one day, busying his hands by hugging him and companionable punching, purring _oh, Brian_ in his ear and receiving some blows himself, swearing in equal measure to Brian and throwing various things on the floor without much exasperation, all of that emotion confined within Brian's anxious form. 

And it's just for the latest part of this sympathetic time period he's been listening to Brian bitching about his unfortunate search for guitar players and responding to his drunken narrative with nasty smirks and teasing, Brian calling him a cunt a dozen times and telling him to fuck off, Tim stating that he already did just that just like all the other decent players, citing Brian's temper as the reason for this musical lonesomeness of his, Brian showcasing his temper to him, both of them laughing like maniacs and exсhanging blasts of phonemes, rapid fist movements and eternal love confessions, filling with nostalgia for the things long past, Tim switching the topic of the conversation, but not to a distant place, doing some bitching - or rather bragging - himself, updating Brian on the work of a very decent guitar player they are both acquianted with, describing his new tunes he had to suffer through just a few days ago, telling Brian he was so wrong to let him go, expressing pity that this previously pretty smooth virtuoso has turned fluffy, having fallen prey to the owner of the plush toy factory, Brian nodding like a fucking Pope, clearly in agreement with all of his assessments, and concluding Tim's speech with that enquiry that leaves Tim speechless, that leaves him coughing violently on Brian's couch, absinthe soothing his dumbfounded throat and Brian doing nothing of the sort, observing his oral misery with raised eyebrows, clearly amused by it.

_Fucker._

"What?" Tim asks, the burning liquid having travelled down his esophagus.

The fucker shrugs.

"Well, you were fucking when John was still in the band, and then he left and Ginj left too, so I was wondering how the things are now, you know. I mean, those two are gonna be together forever for sure and you can never shut up about them, so I guess you hang out with them a lot," he then explains, and Tim thinks that the price of education is way too high in this country.

He clears his still dumbfounded throat, wondering just how stupid a predatorial oceanic fish can be.

"What?" Brian asks, noticing the rather obtuse facial expression he must be wearing on his snout at the moment, no doubt joining Tim in his deliberations about the level of marine animals' intelligence.

"Well," Tim starts, not very eager to show the full extent of his naivety, but sticking to the path of integrity nevertheless. "I guess I was under an illusion I'd been discreet."

The fucker laughs, as if this was the best joke Tim's ever cracked.

"Are you kidding me?" Brian raises a very poignant question. "You were about as discreet as a horny elephant in a china shop. Come on, we used to live on top of each other's heads back then, if not up each other's asses. Everybody knew you were fucking John too."

"Fuck," Tim raises from the couch, shaking his head and chuckling, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You guys were like the hottest topic of the entire two thousand and three," Brian continues, very eager to give his lectures to the accidental student, while Tim roams about the room. "I mean, okay, I knew better and Pogo just didn't give a fuck, of course, but everybody else just wouldn't stop talking about you. You three were the best Brazilian soap opera of the year. People were betting on whom of you two that guitar queen was going to stay with in the end."

" _Stay_ with?" Tim asks, stopping in his tracks, confused by Brian's academic narrative.

cases where a ball is considered dead are

"Yeah," Brian chuckles, comfortable behind his lectern. "Look, just don't judge _me_ here. I know you're not a homewrecker. And Ginj's alright too. People think he's some sort of a nineteenth century evangelist or something, you know, no sex before marriage and one fuck every six months in complete darkness after that, but he isn't that. I know he'd have been down with all that... _sharing_."

Brian smirks, clearly content with his own choice of words, but Tim's frown still tops even that, so he continues spreading knowledge among the illiterate.

"So while everybody else was expecting a fight to break between you two, I was imagining those couple of sandwiches you just had to have had at some point, what, with Ginger drinking as heavily as he does and you swallowing every pill you meet," Brian says, clearly unconcerned about work ethics or proper conduct. "Please, tell me I wasn't wrong and you turned our little Johnny into ham at least once, okay?"

The area Brian's house is located at turns out to be very prone to earthquakes, another one hitting Tim right that second, Tim convulsing in laughter, bending and looking at the floor they've been throwning things on, thinking he is indeed rather dimwitted, but at least he isn't the only one, at least he has a dumbass for a friend too, feeling genuinely happy despite - or because - the need to come clean now.

"Jesus," he says, straightening up and wiping his grinning mouth, looking at Brian's grinning face, about to wipe that smugness off it. "You vulgar fuck. Okay, yeah, we're still fucking, and sure, some delightful things have most certainly happened, though I'm not gonna elaborate about the specifics here, but I've gotta say your crystal ball malfunctioned a bit there, so like consider repairs."

Clairvoyant Brian squints at him, not very eager to leave his rightful place at the lecturer's chair, the glass full of burning liquid in his hand.

"Well," Tim starts, more than ready for the next natural disaster himself. "Ginger's not just down with sharing." He smirks at the quotation and delivers the final truth. "Ginger and I actually live together."

The burning liquid ends up on the floor they've been littering on, ejected out of Brian's mouth, Brian coughing his cancer free lungs out.

"What?" he asks, once that painful process is over for him. 

"Yeah," Tim nods, seeing Brian's incredulous facial expression, his movements nothing like fucking Pope's. "And you might have even noticed that yourself with your insane fucking observation skills, had you bothered visiting my humble residence at least once instead of making me haul my sorry ass here all the time like a despot you are."

"Wait, wait, wait," Brian says, raising his hand and voicing his question to the pedagogue in rather insolent terms. "Shut up for a second. You fucking _live_ with _Ginger_? How does all of it... How does it even work?"

He makes vague gestures, his motions signifying the possible mathematical solutions of the problem at hand.

"Yeah, I fucking do," Tim confirms. "But I don't understand what you find so confusing about the arrangement. It's pretty easy. You know, everybody fucks everybody and the combinations are limited only by goddamn graph theory."

"No, no, no," Brian objects, throwing Tim's own cigarette package at him. "Stop. That's... You live with Ginger. Fuck. Since fucking when?"

Tim chuckles, catching the future terminal disease container, and shrugs.

"Since that time we stayed in Berlin together," he says. "Remember, when I was helping with that techno record and he was playing piano in a fucking swing band?" Brian nods, his motions now not so grand either. "So after that. And in Berlin too."

"Wow," Brian lets out, filling his mouth with absinthe immediately after. "That was like... How many years ago?"

"Fourteen fucking billion, yeah," Tim says, smirking. "I am practically married to those two bastards, you know."

"Fucking hell," Brian says, having seen the tuition fee too. "I guess you kinda are. Christ."

He stands up, swaying, looking around the lecture hall.

"Even more than I was to you, Daddy," Tim adds casually, forgetting about his verbal magical powers that he very much possesses.

"Well, I just hope that threeway marriage of yours isn't as sexless as ours was," Brian responds, influenced by the spell.

Then Tim snorts and Brian generates a sound after him, but of a slightly different variety, and Tim bares his teeth, attacking his natural reaction when under pressure.

"Shit," Brian says, biting his lower lip and pulling on a repentant expression.

"Dude," Tim says, regarding him with no forgiveness in his wretched heart.

"Am I blushing?" 

"Not yet."

"Fuck you."

"So what do you wanna do about it?" Tim starts, the cause of all things evil in the world or at least within a forty miles radius. "Wanna pretend nothing's happened and try to forget it or blame it on the booze if you can't? Or should we address it?"

"The latter, I guess," Brian says and blushes.

"So like," Tim says, showing no signs of being fazed at all, because he just isn't. "I would, you know. Obviously. Were I not as married. So you're just a bit late with that. But I would. And you fucking would too. Clearly."

Brian pshaws at him.

"But we can't," Tim continues, disregarding his reaction. "Sorry. John's gonna fucking kill me. Fucking _dump_ me."

Brian raises an eyebrow.

"He's not particularly fond of you," Tim says, attending to his reaction. "That coarse bonding you were attempting his whole last year was kinda lost on him."

"Shit," Brian sighs. "Okay. But..."

"What?"

"He isn't here."

Tim pshaws at him.

"Nuh-uh," he says, wagging his finger. "I'm a faithful husband and it's an _open_ open marriage. I'd have to tell him. I've kinda discovered over the years that when you keep stuff from your fucking spouses things tend to go south. So we're all about radical honesty there."

Brian chews on his lips.

"So..."

"Yeah, no, I guess."

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Fuck... Yeah. But this is... Now it's kinda---"

"Nah."

"It is."

"Not really," Tim insists. "Everything's fine, Daddy. I'm chill. You're chill. We're both chill."

Brian covers his eyes with his hand, and the visible part of his face doesn't look very convinced.

Tim sighs.

"Okay," he says, coming up with a very sensible offer. "How about I go out on the balcony and fuck up my lungs in there and give you some time and you go deal with this heavy cross of yours in the bathroom or where is it you keep the pliers?" Brian snorts. "And then we come back to this shabby abode and see how it goes."

Brian takes him up on his very sensible offer, being a pretty sensible creature himself, the sequence of events unfolding according to Tim's evil incantations he's always been the rightful author of.

Brian takes him up on his offer and disappears through the door, and Tim goes out on the balcony and lights up a cigarette and fucks up his lungs and pulls out his phone, the first stage of earning absolution for another imminent and also quite intentional fuck up of his taking place, while Tim is taking deep drags and showing his teeth to the outside world.

 _At Brian's_ , he writes in his text to Ginger he most definitely lives with no matter how fucking hard it is for Brian to wrap his mind around. _Wasted. VERY unreasonable. About to do something stupid._

 _Nothing unusual_ , he thinks, typing _very_ in capital letters.

 _Please, be there with me when John is throttling me for it, squid_ , he adds, finishes his cigarette, sends his obituary and goes back into the room.

  
When Tim returns to the shabby abode they've been getting wasted on absinthe in Brian is already there, sitting on the couch and wiping the water off his face with a towel. He throws it away, when Tim enters the room, closing the door behind him. Tim throws the cigarette package on the table and leans on it, and from there it goes neither south, nor north, from there it goes in a direction that is not geographical at all.

"Better?" Tim asks.

"Yeah," Brian says, nodding, the head of the catholic church quality again characteristic of his motions.

"Hm," Tim hums, acknowledging the state of things and making an attempt to change it, because better is not what he aims for in life. "So to clear things up here. Can't touch you. Can't do anything."

"Okay," Brian says, shrugging, accepting the state of things that is about to be altered drastically.

"Don't wanna fuck stuff up, you know," Tim says, going on with the destruction of the status quo. "I've done enough shit already, so I really shouldn't do more. Thin ice and so on."

"What shit?" Brian asks, the search of knowledge a natural human inclination.

"You don't wanna know," Tim says, cannibalism and moral corruption not a part of the curriculum. "Anyway, sorry, but I can't."

"Got it," Brian says, now indeed chill. "No problem."

"If I could, though," Tim says, very tranquil himself. "I'd just take all of my damn clothes off right here in twenty seconds like a fire fucking fighter who moonlights as an exotic dancer and I'd fuck all the holes in my body on your damn cock and maybe even make several new ones, because it's a fucking crime I haven't fucked you till now, because there are so many reasons for me to do it, because I've fucking jerked off about it for like two years and you've jerked off about it for like six, and I fucking want so, so many things, and getting my ass full of your junk is most definitely one of them."

He delivers the speech in one go, both talented and experienced at that, and it leaves Brian gasping and blushing, staring at him like that Edvard Munch's creation, and Tim chuckles, and Brian throws his towel at him.

"You Swedish cunt," he says, the flying object accompanied by the curse.

"Asshole," Tim says, picking up the towel off the floor and swinging it over his shoulder. "Asshole, not a cunt. Different configuration." He gestures at his nether regions. "Which you totally would be able to observe as well, if I could do anything here. I'd show you my welcoming fucking hole in all its depth and let you do anything with it, just fuck it till the end of the week. And then my mouth till the end of the next one, if you're disposed orally too. I'd just service your goddamn cock the same way I serviced you and more, Daddy."

"Fuck, you're such a slut," Brian spits out and shifts on the couch, his untended cock clearly causing him trouble, though not as much as Tim does, turning his visual attention to it and smirking.

"Sure," he agrees easily. "I am. A slut. A whore. A whatever the fuck you want me to be. I can be anything. I am very amenable," he says, dragging the vowels, emphasizing _very_ verbally, unable to type it in capital letters. "Just can't fucking touch you." He makes a pause, relishing the tension. "You can, though."

"Oh, you fucking bastard," Brian says, entering the staring contest, his lips tight, his eyes narrow, focused on Tim's smirking face, Tim not so interested in his pissed off one, interested instead in a different observable, but currently opaque area.

"Come on," he urges Brian to uncover not only the truth, but also the focus of his visual attention. "I'm not fucking leaving here if I don't at least see your cock. Just do it. Just fucking jerk off, and I'll tell you stuff, alright? Tales you simply won't believe. Okay?"

Brian looks around the room and doesn't find anything that can be thrown at Tim in the vicinity, the bottle of absinthe probably still too heavy a punishment for Tim's enthusiastic transgressions in his eyes. He doesn't find anything to throw at Tim and just grabs at his own cock through his pants instead, shuddering at his own touch and letting out a low sound.

Tim clears his throat of the growl that's been stuck there too.

"Just," he starts and then actually continues. "Just promise me it's not gonna get weird, alright? If you're gonna write sad whiny love songs about me after this, then I'm gonna fuck off from here right fucking now, because otherwise I'd have to shit on your pathetic descriptions of my goddamn eyes or something, and that _is_ going to be awkward."

Brian laughs and gives him the middle finger.

"Self-important scum," he says, shaking his head, his other, less offensive hand still covering his erection. 

"I'm full of charm and I know it," Tim says, showing his teeth he is also full of. "Like, seriously, dude, this is just gonna be a fucking hot jerking off session here and nothing else, I can't afford ruining anybody's life right now, I have my own to fuck up and I'm really busy with that."

Brian regards him for a few seconds and then nods, Tim for once not thinking about senile religious leaders, thinking about pretty unholy things that are still not visible to him.

"There're gonna be no songs," Brian says, his lips quirking. "Zero drama. Promise."

mundana, humana, instrumentalis

"Okay, then," Tim says, gesturing to him to start with the fucking hot jerking off session, and Brian finally unzips his pants and pulls his cock out, producing a raspy moan.

"Fuck," Tim says, shuddering and straightening up, his mouth getting full of saliva, his body not relaxed at all.

Brian wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a few tugs, exhaling sharply with the motions. He lifts his head.

"Jesus Christ, dude," he says, his hand speeding up for a moment, jumping around the shaft. "Do you have any idea how you fucking look right now?"

"Yeah," Tim says, staring at the leaps that have nothing to do with faith happening at a pretty short distance. "Like I've been starving for millenia and this is a pork chop you're beating in there?"

"Fuck," Brian says, his voice thin, his cock also thin and long and just like the raspy fuck himself and fucking ordering Tim to suck it just like the raspy fuck does in Tim's pretty specific phantasies about him. "Yeah. Like you're gonna start drooling."

"That's cuz I am," Tim says, his voice tight in his constricted throat, his cock stiff in his tight pants. "Getting full of cock is essentially my life's purpose, you know. And yours is really special to me. Fuck."

Brian lets out a rumbling moan. Tim sways on his feet and wipes the sweat off his forehead.

"And it looks fucking great," he adds, beholding the aforementioned greatness and feeling very much like kneeling before it.

"Yeah?" Brian asks, a modest fucking tyrant he is.

"Well, fucking show it off for me if you're in such doubt," Tim spits out and sinks his teeth in his lower lip hard, when Brian does exactly that, removing his hand and pulling his pants down a little, letting his cock hang freely on display, hooking his palm under it, length resting on it, then holding it at the base, pulling it up and pushing Tim down.

"Fuck," Tim says, swallowing hard, and shoves two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them for several seconds and taking them out abruptly.

"Fuck," Brian concurs, obscuring the view again, performing manual labour, making Tim feel very much like becoming his work-fellow again. "Do you want to---"

"Hell, yeah."

"You coul---"

"No," Tim says, shaking with his whole body, not brave enough to shake his head, feeling like he is about to flop onto the floor. "Fucking shut up before I punch you."

"I just meant you could come closer, if you want," Brian says, panting, arching into his own touch.

"Yeah, no, I am staying right here," Tim says, panting as well, aching and not being touched. "Not coming any fucking closer. Not wearing a dress either. We've done that before."

Brian moans, his head lolling back, and Tim chuckles.

"Feel free to imagine that, though," he says, licking his teeth. "Pervert. I'd fucking wear anything you told me if I could."

"Jesus."

"Dresses. Heels. Stockings. Fucking collars or whatever it is you are into. Hats and gloves and fucking ball gags."

"Shut up."

"It's gonna be boring if I do. Regular, dull, and lonely. And I promised you some hot ass self-abuse."

Brian whines, closing his eyes, jerking his hips up.

"So kinky shit. Anything you fucking want while you impale me on that precious cock of yours. You can fuck my depraved hole as hard as you want to. Invite a pal. Fuck me with that annoying guitar dude you fired. With all the annoying guitar dudes you've interviewed. Just stuff my ass with cocks. I'd fucking love it."

"Fucking hell," Brian says, his eyes now open and wide. "You... Are you even..."

"'Course," Tim says, his eyes now seeing only red. "Binary anal is the best thing in the world and I am the best fuckhole for it. Just don't start thinking about things that aren't your business here. That shit's off limits."

"Yeah, don't think about the monkey, right," Brian says, chuckling, his voice raspy to an extreme degree. "Whorey Zen fucking master you are."

Tim laughs and covers his mouth with his hand, rubbing at his lips, pulling at them and twisting them, Brian displaying an intriguing interest in his activities.

"Don't you want to..." he starts, lowering his gaze for a second, pointing with his eyes. "You know, entertain yourself."

"Nope," Tim says and sucks his thumb into his mouth instead, entertaining Brian for a brief, but spectacular period. "Not doing that either. I'm gonna stay stiff and miserable."

"That's..." Brian breathes out, erect and seemingly pretty happy himself. "That's kinda cruel, dude."

Tim chuckles.

"I kinda am too," he says, glancing at the neglected body part of his, denying it freedom it looks very much aching for. "Also, I am not just any Zen master here. I am a follower of the school of utter refusal. Staying stiff and miserable is like the second best thing in the world."

Brian swears under his breath.

"You could just fuck my holes and leave me after that," Tim says, turning his attention back to Brian's cock that is enjoying both its liberty and Brian's hardworking hand. "Just fill me with your junk and throw me away. Just use me."

"You whore," Brian spits out, his legs now shaking too. 

"Yeah, and a very good one," Tim says, proud of his achievements. “So if that’s not your juice, I could also come all over myself for you. Come on your cock. Would you like that?”

“Oh, goddamn it, Tim,” Brian says, his eyes rolling back, the rapid self-abuse he’s putting himself through clearly about to terminate with a blast and soon.

“Or with your cock in my mouth,” Tim offers, putting his explosion expertise to good use. “I’d take you deep. Let you fuck my throat. Come while you’re at it. I’d so come while sucking you off, Daddy. Wouldn’t you like to come in my fucking mouth too?”

Brian growls, gripping the armrest of the couch hard, looking furious in both his beating off and his dead-set staring at Tim.

“Of course I fucking would, you dirty cunt,” he says, voice gritty and breaking every other word. “Come in your slutty fucking mouth. Fuck, you... I’d fucking make you choke on my junk.”

“And I’d happily oblige,” Tim says, pulling his slutty fucking mouth open and sticking out his tongue, rubbing three of his pretty lewd fingers over it, smearing saliva around his lips, pressing on them and pulling at them, his teeth bared, his whole body tense and sweaty, his eyes fixed on Brian, Brian coming with a string of affectionate insults on his lips at the sight Tim cheerfully amuses him with, jerking his hips up and thrusting into his own hand, squeezing his cock tight and biting his lips hard, not as mercilessly as Tim usually performs those actions, but still pretty unrestrained and not fucking discreet at all, Tim thinking that if things become weird despite their treaty it’s maybe not his fucking eyes, but his complaisant trap that is going to be eulogized for the future generations in Brian’s sad whiny poetry about love, and isn’t that another goal he strives for in life.

  
"You should be doing fucking porn, not making music," Brian says, catching the towel Tim throws at him some time later, having thoroughly enjoyed Brian's messy, dishevelled post-orgazmic haze, Brian scattered across the couch, looking as if all senses have been knocked out of him, and it's quite possible they actually have, Tim gradually getting his equally or even exceedingly devastated ones restored, Brian wiping his mess off.

Tim snorts.

"What?" Brian asks, raising an eyebrow.

Tim also raises an eyebrow.

Brian coughs and stops his cleaning process.

"Seriously?"

Tim chuckles and grabs at the cigarette package.

"Not like a shit ton of it, but some, yeah," he says, about to leave his post at the table and smoke on the balcony after not coming. "Amateur. You know, for some friends of mine."

"I'm your friend," Brian says, and Tim laughs and gives him first the middle finger and then a promise to send him some graphic footage if his jealous spouse approves.

  
"Aren't you gonna do something about it?" Brian asks, when Tim returns into the room and lands on the couch next to him, sliding down and spreading his legs wide, Brian looking at his erection and then at his face, taking a sip of his fucking absinthe.

"What, are you also a slut for cocks?" Tim inquires in his turn, smirking and grabbing the bottle to fill a glass for himself. "I thought you wanted my accommodating holes."

"Fuck off," Brian says, also sliding down the couch and stretching his legs. "I don't give a fuck about your cock. I am just worried about my friend."

Tim laughs and takes a generous sip too.

"And yeah, I'd fuck all of your holes that are on offer if you weren't so hitched and they were on offer," Brian continues. "I just... I mean, I can totally go to another room if you need to---"

"Nah," Tim declines. "I fucking meant it about not coming. Don't you worry, I am so enjoying the suffering right now."

"Hell," Brian says, glancing at him sideways. "You aren't kidding, right?"

"Nope," Tim says, turning his head to look at him. "I am into a lot of weird shit."

"You sure are."

"I've played for Marilyn fucking Manson himself, what did you expect?"

"Oh, shut up."

  
And Tim does, but only for a while, because then they go on with getting wasted on absinthe, and Tim tells Brian tales of the Spanish Inquistion that he does not believe, but not for long either, Tim writhing there on the couch, enjoying the suffering caused by his own words and going into incredible detail, causing the suffering to Brian by that and then urging him to relieve it again, observing their second fucking hot jerking off session he himself eagerly facilitates by providing both the narrative and the wide open trap to stare at, sitting right next to Brian on the couch, noticing every incredible detail and showing unbelievable will power and following the path of abstinence and practicing fucking Zen, Brian eagerly agreeing to eulogize his wide open trap in his pathetic poetry for him and loading his drunken tortured corpse into a taxi after fourteen billion years of congenial alcohol consumption, into a taxi that takes him to the house he most definitely lives with Ginger in. 

  
Three days later the Spanish inquistion questions him for close to an hour, wearing a feathery attire and a furious frown on its beautiful visage Tim keeps humbly looking at, standing there on his knees while his interrogator towers over him and roams about the room, exasperated at his honest answers, Tim lowering his head to have it severed by the sword, John full of righteous anger and Ginger just sitting on the couch, suffering a mild headache, the two of them having come to the house Tim lives with Ginger in directly from the airport, having returned from their short sugary vacation they spent without Tim and without certain things being disclosed to John until that very day, Tim breaking the news to him himself and wondering if something else is also going to be in pieces once he's done.

"...and then I sat on the couch with him while he beat off again and told him how much I'd love that if he bent me over right there on stage and fucked me for every idiot to see and jerk off about, because we're both vain like that, and when it all became too good for him I pulled my chatty trap open again and let him look and let him talk about how much he'd love to come down my throat and all over my face and thought of that myself and fucking drooled until he came and a little bit after that as well," Tim completes his long confession, careful not to forget anything, surrendering every little sin of his, and John purses his lips, regarding his kneeling frame with such disdain Tim didn't think he could even master.

"You fucking thought of sucking Manson off?" he asks with such revulsion Tim thinks it tops that time he found a hair in his goddamn cake.

"Yeah," Tim says, shrugging. "Obviously."

"That's disgusting," John makes his judgement.

From all this it is clear that the theory that the movement of the stars produces a harmony, i.e. that the sounds they make are concordant, in spite of the grace and originality with which it has been stated, is nevertheless untrue.

Tim chuckles, raising his eyebrows, defiant at the gallows.

"Maybe," he says, shaking his head slightly. "But that's like the least disgusting thing I thought of in my lifetime. Sucking cocks fades in comparison with sucking lives out of people. Even if it's Brian's offensive phallus we're talking about here."

Ginger sighs on the couch, life sucked out of him by the commercial aviation, Tim wondering if he's going to be much help in dismembering his horrible body if this interview indeed resolves in throttling, getting momentarily distracted by this train of thought and thus further proving his own point, John yanking him out of his shark sashimi bliss, berating his choice of phallic objects to drool about.

"But it is," he says, looking down at Tim with contempt."It's _Manson's_ cock."

"It's a cock," Tim retorts, looking up at him with moderate remorse. "I like cocks. I adore that pompous fucker too, of course, cuz he's my bestie, but you don't have to worry your pretty little head about it much, you know. It's a cock. And I am like right next to it. Of course I want it in my mouth. That's just an axiom, John."

John snorts, falling victim to the charm Tim's bursting with, Tim showing him his teeth he also possesses in large quantities.

"If I am in proximity of anything that's lingam-like, I am gonna think about worshipping it," Tim goes on, elaborating on his cock sucking inclination. "It's just like with you and fucking guitars, but with cocks. It's licks for you and sucks for me."

John starts giggling, pushing his head away in a gesture that's more mock anger than actual one, and Tim sways on his knees and wipes his chatty mouth in a gesture that's a very real invitation, nothing mock about it.

"I'm thinking of fellatio I'm obsessed with right fucking now," he says, moving his eyes that won't be mentioned in any sad whiny love songs up and down John's menacing form looming over him. “Of like one point three fellatios, to be precise. A full blown one for you and a third of it for that bone-tired boneless creature on the couch, since forces dissipate with distance.”

The boneless creature on the couch laughs softly, and Tim winks at him, proud to show off his mathematical abilities to the specialist in the room and eager to see an awesome boner between his legs were it to appear.

“I am so thinking about sucking your cock right now, John,” he says with determination, again looking at John’s beautiful visage.

“Well, you’re not getting it,” John responds with even bigger obstinacy, Tim slumping with a sigh at the gallows, figuring there won't be any throttling either, but it turns out John isn't yet finished with his decisive announcement. 

"Not until you suck my fingers first," John adds with a smirk, everything about him obnoxious.

"Fuck," Tim grins, everything about him tilted towards abominable things. "You sure know how to wield your verdicts. Squid, find us some dildos. We're gonna need your help to ensure my mug is getting properly punched."

  
So in accordance with the laws of verbal voodoo that governs their lives Tim is so busy ruining the future happens exactly as described, though with many more aspects of it made explicit. 

That future starts happening right after the present, Ginger raising from the couch with a groan and leaving the room in search of unholy treacherous lingams that keep hiding under beds and behind book fucking cases, leaving Tim to undress like a fire fighter who moonlights as a pious acolyte and John to laugh at his hurried stripping motions like a cruel divine being whose stiffening sword manifests itself in his pants right in front of Tim's orally disposed face.

That future goes on proceeding when Ginger returns to the shabby abode Tim is kneeling before John completely naked at, John towering over him in all his glittery greatness, and does what the captured heretic tells him to do with a pathetic expression on his face whose oral dispostion is of a much more decent rating and could actually be observed by viewers as young as those in the cradle, things that occur beneath that area, though, a show of quite a different sort, Ginger stuffing Tim's lubed hole with a dildo and then, with Tim's own heartless aid, with the second one, Tim writhing on the floor, delighting in the suffering that's caused by his own commands, opening his trap wide, mirroring the stretching that is happening downstairs, sticking his tongue out, mirroring John's obnoxious behaviour and topping it, John blushing even more furiously than he was berating Tim in the recent past that happened before the present has given rise to the future, biting his lips and endowing Tim's with his extended guitar jerking hand once the unholy lingams are fully seated inside a particular point of Tim's nether regions, John coming up with an order of sucks he has to perform, Tim creating chaos out of it, relishing in the suffering that's caused by his failure to obey John's commands, fucking himself on the dildos with Ginger's tender tentacles trembling around them and on his shoulder and sucking on John's magical fingers, his fucked up mind confusing their designations and their spatial locations, John slapping him across the face for every mistake he makes and he makes oh so many, Tim moaning, John gasping and Ginger chanting his _fucks_ at the blows, the punches marked and counted in three different systems of numeration, the punches pretty adequate in gravity to Tim's enthusiastic petty crimes, John terminating the punishment and heralding the time of clemency after his sadistic inclination has been thoroughly satisfied by Tim's amenable surrender, pulling out his cock and telling Tim to suck it, succinct, precise and not at all discreet about what his heart desires, Tim blissfully obliging, his lips in a tight circle around John's shaft, his oral cavity providing wet, hot and eager welcome, John thrusting in his snarling mouth and hauling his dumb head even closer by his hair, both naturally occuring holes in Tim's body now stuffed and utilized with benefits spread evenly among the user and the used, Ginger just a little bit uncared for, selfless in his pivoting he carries out on Tim's shaking body, his other loving tentacle busy with the gentle caress he executes on Tim's sweaty spine, Tim feeling very much like coming with his mouth full and his hole fucked and then not doing that, John spitting out he mustn't dare to, Tim not upset about it or about the insults John drowns him in several seconds later, supplying him with junk that pours down his throat and with a throbbing cock that slides over his tongue, Tim swallowing around him, about as restrained as a horny shark in a threeway porn scene he most definitely is.

"Fuck," John spits out, stepping back and denying Tim's chatty trap fullfillment, assessing the apostate kneeling at his feet in all his punctured and beaten infamy, pointing his offended finger at the wreckage. "My fucking hand hurts now because of you, you filthy shit."

Tim goes into spasms of laughter, hit by another act of God or rather of the Devil, coughing at least one of his doomed lungs out, Ginger holding him through his seizure.

"Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it, you whiny fucking perfectionist?" Tim says, once the aftershocks stop crumbling his shabby body. "Well, let me kiss your injury away and then you'll penalize me for having an iron hard muzzle, okay?"

  
The hereafter looks just like Tim declared it would, the nice additions also following suit, Ginger helping the dildos out of his hole and helping him up and then down again once he finishes soothing John's misery caused to him by the punching bag and by the slapping incompetence John still showed residual signs of Tim makes a note of to correct for in the time that lies ahead of them, but not right away, other things on his mind, both him and the wounded virtuoso agreeing that Ginger's awesome boner he developed over the course of both justice and John's cock being served simply must be attended to, Ginger easing Tim's tortured, but pretty sober corpse onto the floor and easing himself onto the couch in front of him, John landing right beside him not entirely ungracefully and pulling his cock out, wrapping his talented guitar jerking fingers around it and playing a tune in close proximity to Tim's hungry orally inclined mouth, putting the education he acquired and Tim paid for to good use, pulling Tim's trap wide open and telling him to keep it that way, teasing him with a phallic object Tim desperately wants inside it, cruel to an extreme degree, Tim generating sad whiny love songs at the sight and suffocating, pleading both with pitiful sounds and with puppy eyes he darts at John's smug face, the owner of the item Tim longs so much for having multiple seizures John giggles and kisses him through, his face not smug at all, his face pale and wrinkled and overwhelmed, the short sugary vacation he spent alone with John clearly having been much more chaste, Tim darting his eyes at him too, savoring the mercy that most definitely exists in the world, confined within Ginger's shuddering form, opting for the next best thing seeing that he still isn't allowed to savor his cock, tasting blood on his indecent tongue he sticks out, John being a nasty cheeky mirror for him until he loses both his tiny shark brain and his tiny shark patience and asks if he has to fucking beg here. 

"Yeah," John says nonchalantly, an audacious idiot who plays with radioactive elements he is, and Tim takes him up on his senseless dare, begging for the holy phallus to honor his oral cavity with its presence, hellishly inspired tales falling out of his chatty trap in strings of generous praise and even more lavish self-humiliation, the spells he utters making Ginger turn bright red after just a few seconds of that, Tim inwardly acknowledging his achievements, but starting to feel really proud of himself when John joins the overly aroused squid in having a burgeoning tint to his visage, Tim himself colored in more natural shades, not fazed by the evil incantations he chants one bit, things that are needed to faze him being of a much higher magnitude than verbal filth.

"Fucking do it already," John says, not aloof at all, interrupting Tim's offensive narratives, urging Tim to commit an act he's been so eagerly imploring him to permit, Tim submitting right that second, his talkative mouth now busy blowing Ginger's fucking instrument, his lips in a closed geometrical shape again, wet and hot around him, John's aggrieved heavenly cruel hand pressing on his nape, pushing him onto Ginger's awesome boner, Tim growling in elation, Ginger busy with his blaspheming anthem, taking both Satan's humble residence and his name in vain, shuddering and sweaty and exhausted in the house of prayer, John also obscene in his sound production, switching back to kindness when it's Ginger's turn to make a plea, his petition again much more decent than those of Tim's, Ginger wanting to be held dear and asking to be kissed whereas Tim wanted to be turned inside out and asked to be brutally murdered by cock, John granting both their requests and muffling Ginger's moans all the way through his cataclysmic orgasm, while Tim chokes on Ginger's boiling junk, feeling like an exploding warhead that for some reason is treated like a sex toy, fulfilling his purpose in life.

  
"So am I forgiven?" Tim asks in the short time period that comes on his own, without his reality shaping skills having been applied, chilling out on Ginger's bony knee, breathless and wiping his demolished lips with the back of his hand, looking up at the hazy post-orgasmic bastards with hooded eyes.

"Okay," John says, still somewhat displeased, but letting bygones be bygones. "Whatever. If you want to be that asshole's jerk off material, then be that."

"Thanks," Tim says, chuckling, still neglected, stiff and miserable on his knees, but knowing how to make the most of that situation as well. "You know, I might be that asshole's jerk off material, but I am your shark."

"Oh, shut up," John says, and Tim does for a while, yielding to John's decree and to Ginger's tentacle that starts caressing his beaten shabby snout immediately after Tim shuts up, resting his dumb piscine head on his accommodating thigh, kissing Ginger's travelling fingers every time they end up in the vicinity of his very fortunate lips, John snorting, curled up around Ginger's gelatinous body, that sirupy bullshit going on until John proclaims he wants literal sweet things and a lot of them and preferably right fucking now, Tim more than ready to tend to his needs.

"Sure," he says, getting up slowly and swaying. "I'll just go flush whatever there is left of my cock down the toilet and then I'll make you something awesome and you'll tell me all about your fucking honeymoon, alright?"

  
Luckily, this time Tim fails a little bit in the creation of events by statements, so he actually gets to keep his deserted cock and even more than that, Ginger entering the bathroom when Tim is standing there half bent, hovering over the sink, water running down his skull, Ginger announcing his presence with concerned questions, Tim acknowledging his company and straightening up, turning around and showing himself in all his wet tortured glory, Ginger licking his lips, fondness for captured animals written on his face, closing the short distance between them and giving Tim a tug of manual endearment, Tim gripping the sink tight, pliers always on him wherever he goes, enjoying the possibility to rub one out with Ginger's tender loving aid, but not for long, John catching them in the act, finding his way into the bathroom too in search of mirrors he could obsess about his hairdo in front of and finding Tim getting a tentaclejob right next to it instead.

"Hey!" he says, his whole form positively insulted, John himself squinting at the act of grace taking place before his affronted eyes.

"Come on," Ginger breathes out, conciliatory tone to his words, Tim shrugging, playing feigned innocence, John pouting, but also briefly, figuring that if one can't stop the sacrilege, one must join in, taking steps forward and shrinking the space that separates him from Tim too, sticking his fingers in Tim's hole Tim gives him full access to without any hesitation, both the bastards promptly bringing him down, Tim reaching his peak and bravely facing his imminent demise, coming like a motherfucker in tight confines of two relieving and two supporting hands, leaving the carnal temple of the bathroom in favour of the kitchen after spending long years of universe's lifetime contemplating the sheer volume of bliss he somehow earned for being a squid eating guitar player spoiling malefactor, standing between those two creatures on unsteady feet, the chirping idiots embracing him in their arms.

Tim's other oeuvre of occult, though, follows the pattern of his utterance, the sirupy bullshit he cooks for John turning out to be awesome indeed, John stuffing his face with it while Ginger tells Tim everything about their time apart, the three of them ending up in bed shortly thereafter, damaged by the thermonuclear blasts that accompanied their meeting and Ginger slain by flying even before that, Tim leaving that heated to an extreme degree abode covered in blankets in the morning, forced to rise by his full bladder and his need to inflict some tissue damage on his respiratory system, sitting there in the chair in front of his computer with a cigarette hanging off his lower lip, scrolling through Brian's future jerk off material he doesn't have a shit ton of, but can always supplement, choosing several particularly unseemly clips and sending them away with words of friendly adoration, allowed that as well, the permissive bastards still a sleeping pile of limbs.

The response he gets when those lovebirds rise and ask for food like fucking chicks they are contains the shabby lyrics that beg for instant shitting on them, his eyes not once a subject of the sentence, his other body parts mentioned in abundance, Tim reading the eulogy out loud for both the idiots whose shark he is to pshaw at him. 


	8. 2.0

  
John says nothing.

  
Well, surely, John whines, though not wholeheartedly, and asks why the fuck Tim even needs that, so Tim gives his explanations, though not very long-winded ones, because Ginger doesn't need much convincing, there have been those nights when they couldn't fall asleep from crying and he knows certain things and they've been doing those things together, and also John himself isn't as stubborn as he used to be, because he's done things too, he's already put out flames Tim ignited, Tim's body serving as the ashtray, and not just once, he's done it many times already, though not without horror and not without saying something, not like it's the very act he's been sent on Earth to carry out for - that will happen later.

Anyway, it's pretty usual.

  
But John says nothing, though he only does that because Tim stays silent too, too fucked out for his little provocations.

  
It's a few days later that he talks.

But not with John.

Tim talks with Ginger, and it is an early morning conversation, it is around 8 a.m. or something, and as a rule Tim would raise objections to being conscious at that hour, but not that day, that day they are half asleep and also half naked, as in Tim is unclad and Ginger's wearing his traditional pajamas, as in his loose boxers and his antique wifebeater, both items not even doing their job properly, sliding up and down, so maybe they are actually like seventy five percent naked, but who gives a fuck, they get fully naked soon, it's Ginger's cock poking his thigh that stirs him not entirely awake, that makes him shift and hug him and undress him, muttering words he can't afterwards recall, and it's Ginger's cock that can be used as a weather vane, but one that doesn't show the direction of the wind, one that is tuned to point at sharks, it's Ginger's cock or what it signifies that propels Ginger to slide down Tim's not entirely awaken body, both lips and hands and then his tongue when Ginger reaches Tim's butt in his nuzzling, so Tim raises no objections, Tim kicks off the blankets and spreads his legs, rubbing his own erection into the mattress underneath him and letting Ginger fondle his insides.

Ginger really, really likes licking him.

Tim doesn't exactly mind.

  
So just a little bit of rimming camaraderie.

  
Which goes on, and then nothing about their early morning smooching feels petite, then it becomes kind of a lot, and Tim isn't just smearing the sheets in precome, he's fully poking holes in them and in the mattress too, while Ginger's investigating his secret passage, kissing every centimeter of it - Tim feels like he's turning inside out, so that seems possible. Though... It's not turning inside out per se, more like he's a funnel and that's just his function, the gaping is just a part of his innate structure, but whatever, it's kind of a lot and it feels great.

So he's mumbling.

Tim fucks the mattress, wriggling on Ginger's obliging tongue, shivering at the shocks of Ginger's warm exhales tickling the edges of his relaxed, luxuriating hole, and dives into the pool of epithets, sharing them mostly with the pillow he shoves his face into to suffocate himself and enjoy the vertigo that seems appropriate, and the sentences he utters are along the lines of _suck out my fucking hollow_ and _put your whole fucking head in there_ , with a bit of _I'm so gonna come on your tongue right now_.

And okay, the latter is just a prediction that comes out one hundred percent true in less than twenty seconds after he makes it, but first two phrases might sound somewhat strange, though in reality they are quite accurate and the eccentricity of the first one is to be blamed on his own weirdness, on those flushing images of dark, but glowing chambers Ginger's liquid, molten, incinerated body is floundering about at, of the insides of his horrid heart, and the _put your whole head in me_ idea... Granted, it is an overkill and it's most likely not achievable at all and not for the lack of trying, not for the disinclination of any sort, because the desire's there, it's just too daring and poetic and not literal, it's just how he chooses to express his wishes that are fully present in his dizzy mind.

So - accurate.

Just like that prediction that he lives through within moments, swallowing a mouthfull of the pillow and still attempting to issue his distinctive snarl.

  
So - Tim comes on Ginger's tongue and shudders, lying there in ruins and in a pool of his own come.

So - Tim says _oh fuck, squid_ , turning his head, when Ginger makes him shudder one more time.

"Oh fuck, squid," Tim says, turning his head, freeing his mouth of the pillow and letting in some air, Ginger removing his reassuring hands he put on Tim's Tim used to pull his cheeks as wide apart as acting relatively sane allowed and dragging his finger over Tim's pulsing hole Tim's still keeping on display.

He's expecting to get fucked right... about... now.

Now.

Now.

Now.

"What's up?" Tim asks, glancing at Ginger over the shoulder, lifting his head off the pillow he dined on a little while ago. At Ginger who's still circling the edges of his hole he previously tickled with his breath. At Ginger's whose cock must be ready to press charges for criminal neglect. "Come in. We're open. No need to linger at the doorstep."

Tim sees Ginger smiling shyly, hears him letting out a soft laugh, his gaze briefly touching Tim's face half turned to him, and Ginger's fingers persist in caressing the more than willing entrance to his body as if it is a pretty little butterfly or something.

"What?" Tim asks, now twisting his upper body too, propping himself on one elbow, but not doing anything to stop Ginger from harrassing the winged caterpillars, keeping his legs spread and his hips slightly lifted. His hole is a very welcoming establishment. "You don't wanna fuck me?"

That _is_ pure nonsense.

"No, I..." Ginger says, laughing again, acknowledging the ludicrousness of the speculation. "Of course I want to."

"So?"

"I just..." Ginger starts, patterns he is drawing on Tim's hole getting more abstract. "I want to... Ask something."

"Yeah?"

"What we did on Wednesday..."

  
Following apoptosis, the dying cells need to be buried

  
And what they did on Wednesday, what Ginger and John did to him is that they put him on the pile of pillows, tied up like a pornographic grilled chicken, after Tim disclosed his motivation and gave John a short lecture on splitting the nuclei and fissile isotopes John didn't really get, but still bound him and quite adequately, shrugging his explanations off and telling him to be quiet, which Tim did and successfully.

What they did on Wednesday, is that they turned Tim - at his own request, obviously - both into mashed bullshit and inside out as a duet.

What they did on Wednesday, is that they drowned him in lube and stretched him, a bit more slowly and carefully than he would've loved them do, they were not exactly frightened, but they were cautious, and he looked at both their worried faces, showing them his teeth, and that how it started and went on for a few minutes, they stretched him until they deemed his hole capable of taking their fists - sadly not both of them at the same time, but - and then they delved in him, one after another, first John, then Ginger, then John again, and Tim kept glancing at them, sneering, his cock half hard on his stomach, he kept being the hungry predator until one of them - he would say Ginger, if he had to guess - brushed his fingertips over the edges of his dilated hole, a steadily moving fist inside it, which sent him spiraling to a different plane.

So what they did on Wednesday, is that they made him moan, dragging his head over the pile of pillows, eyes blurry, mind gradually getting empty, they rummaged about his insides, touching the walls of his thoroughly lubed cavern, and Ginger's warm hand was soothing, if compared with John's cruel fist, Ginger's warm hand felt kind of cool and calming, the hand that he slipped inside him when John withdrew, the hand that then leaked out of him when John pushed his in him again, hot, hard and heavy, thrusting, and it fucking went on and on and on and their fingertips, both their fingertips, they were hanging around the gates, touching the stretched rim of his gaping vent and brushing against each other's wrists and knuckles, driving him absolutely mad.

What they did on Wednesday, is that they made him into nothing, step by step, together, they made him struggle in his ties and then relax in them, because what's the point, made him accept his fate, made him into a glove for both their gloved fists, into an atypically helpless black hole, into a moaning, crying, begging hollow, what they did to him is that they made him come and fall apart, what they did to him is...

Oh, the sweet things they did to him.

They made him come so hard he couldn't even taunt John afterwards, he simply orgasmed, blacking out and clenching around John's mauling fist, slapped in the face by Ginger's tentacles, not so excruciating as John's hands would've been, but creating fissures, tender, but still wounding to him, because to be slapped hard across the face while shaking on John's fist is exactly what he begged for, moaning and crying in the pile of pillows.

On Wednesday he begged to be ruined by both of them.

  
"What we did on Wednesday..." Ginger says on Sunday, worrying his lips and bothering Tim's asshole, though the last action causes no dismay to the area he's touching, that area's totally enjoying it.

"Yeah?" Tim asks, pushing his hips up a little, and smiles at the memory of being pleading, fucked out debris. "What about it?"

Tim catches a glimpse of Ginger's tongue he climaxed on fairly recently moving between his lips he's chewing.

"Did you..." Ginger says. "Did you like it?"

Tim chuckles, lies down on the pillow, spreading his legs even wider, Ginger's fingers travelling between his cheeks.

"Oh yeah," he says. "Wasn't that clear?"

Ginger smiles, his fingers slowing down. He looks away for a short second.

"I just... How. How did it feel?"

Oh.

That.

Tim hums. 

There're numerous comparisons appearing in his head, ranging from water park slides to speleology and its proud underground subject, but all of them seem less precise than this early morning chat requires, despite there being no tears in their eyes.

He sniffs, wrinkling his nose and shifting again, he smiles at Ginger too.

"Good," he says. "Really, really good."

Ginger caresses his asshole with his fingers and his pensive face with his eyes, waiting for him to continue.

"Like... Hm. You know what, you tell me. How does it feel when John and I _hand you over_?"

Ginger's fingers stutter.

Tim calling him a _shitduct_ while they do it is no accident.

It's just a rude, offensive, painful version of more elevated feelings.

"Uhm..." Ginger says, looking away, then at Tim's hole with his own fingers resting on it, at Tim's back he kissed. "Like... Like I am there. _For_ you."

Oh yeah.

"You know, like I... Like that's where I should be. Uhm... Like I... Exist. Exist for..."

"Like you only exist for us to take you," Tim finishes for him. 

Ginger nods and looks at him, blushing.

"Well," Tim says, eyeing him too. "Then you know how it felt for me. Or... Could've been more about... _Stopping_ to exist for you two. Fisting seems to carry me to some really distant places, if you understand what I mean."

Ginger hums.

If he doesn't, he only doesn't _yet_.

His fingers move again for a few seconds, then stop.

Then he swallows.

"What? What do you want?"

Tim is somewhat ahead in his language acquisition.

Ginger looks away, at Tim's hole and at his own fingers, at Tim's back, Tim's face, all with affection.

"Can you..."

Yes.

"Can you do it to me again?"

Tim grins.

"Fisting or handover?"

Both.

Ginger's throat repeats the gulping motion, his fingers tremble.

"I uh... Fisting."

Tim's grin becomes even wider.

"Sure." 

Ginger hums one more time, smiles, tries saying _thank you_ , cuts himself short, seeing what's written on Tim's snout, smiles again and resumes petting the butterflies.

Tim lifts his hips, letting out some murmurs too.

"So are you gonna fuck me?" he asks, genuinely curious. "Or do you want to keep toying with my ass?"

He's more than fine with both chains of events.

Even if Ginger fiddles with his hole till noon.

Till midnight.

"I..." Ginger says. "I want to. Lick you. Again."

"Hmm," Tim says and smiles, turning his head away from him and shoving his face into the pillow, his hands landing on his butt a second later, pulling his cheeks apart. "Have fun."

Then Ginger starts kissing the fucking moth, and it is only after at least twenty full Earth's rotating cycles that he stops, covering Tim's body with his own and slipping his cock inside him without any hitches, and comes in him, breathing in his ear, fingers brushing lightly over the rim of Tim's sucked out, worshipped funnel.

Then he says he loves him, and he does.

  
John says nothing.

But later, when one day discussions turn to this topic once again, because Tim does speak of fisting rather often, it is his hobby horse he's very passionate about, John says _fuck off Tim, I am not doing that._

  
Then, when the bulky rock in space finishes a few more rotations around its axis, like maybe twelve or thirteen, John says nothing.

John isn't there in the room with them.

Tim is the one who speaks.

Ginger reserves to moaning.

  
Ginger moans, his head falling back, onto the pile of pillows, eyelashes fluttering, eyes closing for a moment.

"Hey!" Tim says.

And wags a finger at him when he lifts his head.

"Having problems with your memory already?" he asks, pulling gently at the walls of Ginger's insides with three of his fingers and with his teeth - as usual. "Don't you remember what I said?"

Ginger licks his lips.

"I do."

"So how should you behave when I am thumping all of your virtue out of you?" Tim asks, feeling Ginger's scary hole pulsing at his words. "Please, repeat the rules of proper conduct to me."

  
So just a bit of early morning torture of the hesitant, but willing.

  
And yeah, he doesn't know why it is like 9 a.m. when they are doing it - that is also after dealing with enemas, with _two_ enemas, because he is a hungry monster - but apparently they've hit a rise and fuck at dawn streak or something.

  
"I shouldn't close my eyes," Ginger lets out, more pathetic sounds than consonants or vowels.

"Uh-huh," Tim nods, pouring more lube on his hole and trying to fit the fourth finger in as well. "What else?"

"I shouldn't turn my face away," Ginger continues, trying to release the phonemes. "I should look at you."

"Or?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, swearing expelled from his mouth without efforts. "Or at my cock."

  
Now, speaking of cocks - which is another topic Tim addresses frequently and can't shut up about and mentions on the daily basis, unless it's Pussy Thursday or Pussy Saturday or even Pussy Monday - Ginger's cock is _hard._

Tim's - not so much.

Or, shit, it's obviously hard right now, stiff and aching, it couldn't have been limp in any case, he gave Ginger two fucking enemas and now his fist is gradually getting in his ass and Ginger's lying there in front of him in a pile of pillows, naked, shivering and open - holding himself with his own fucking hands - so like how can he not have a boner and one with huge, massive teeth on it.

But when they're being fisted - that's when it's different.

Because Tim is mostly flaccid while his hole is punched. Not for the lack of relish and delight - he's full of bliss when he's full of fists. And also it's not unalterable, Tim's ecstatic snout or his sluggish cock can be attacked too, and then, then he'll get roaring hard and then he'll come like a motherfucker who cries and begs and asks for slaughter. 

But predominantly Tim isn't hard when he's being fisted.

Ginger's hard. _Hard._

Which might seem like... misalignment. Though it isn't. They obviously - goes without saying - have opposing feelings in regards to so many aspects of their interactions, but some they share and some they now know about, some they understand, some they've managed to start sensing through each other with some help from immense pain Tim's caused, and the thing is, if fisting or being otherwise overly stretched and penetrated is concerned, then at least five times out of ten their inner chambers are copies of each other. With deviations, certainly, but still. They are of different species, so their inmost premises are decorated in different styles.

And Ginger being rock hard when he's fisted is just one of those fashion deviations.

If Tim had to make a guess, he'd say it's tension.

It's things that are easy for Tim being difficult for Ginger.

It's existing as an open wound being hard for Ginger that makes Ginger so hard when he's forced ajar.

  
Or, maybe, it's just because Tim's in the fucking room with him.

  
And Tim is in the room with him.

"Oh no," Tim says, smirking. "That won't do. Use full sentences. And don't omit important details."

Ginger, naturally, moans.

It's not just Tim's instructions, it's also Tim's fourth finger enjoying success in infiltration.

"I uh..." Ginger starts, hiccupping out chunks of the phrase he has to utter, glancing at his cock and then settling on looking Tim in the eye. "I have to. Look. At my... At my---"

"Yeah?"

"I have to look at my overly excited, leaking, bouncy, kinky cock," Ginger pushes out in one go, blushing so bright his face just might be repurposed as a beacon. "Fuck. Fuck, Tim."

Tim laughs, admiring the lighthouse.

"At your overly excited, leaking, bouncy, kinky, _awesome_ cock," he says, turning the four fingers that are now exploring Ginger's inner landscape in a clockwise and a counter clockwise manner. "Don't skip the most vital part."

How does Ginger respond to that? He moans.

"Go on," Tim says, urging him to continue. "That's not all. There was more."

Because he can never have enough.

"Okay," Ginger says, licking his lips, checking on his cock again and switching back to looking right at Tim. "I... I can't touch myself."

"Specify."

"I uh... I can't jerk off. I can't touch my cock."

"And?" Tim asks, squeezing in the thumb. "Or was there a misunderstanding?"

Ginger shakes his head.

"No," he says, and his body also shakes, Tim's knuckles bumping into the rim of his hole. "I can't touch anything. Without asking."

"Uh-huh..."

"If I want to touch my... Fuck. My---"

 _You know the word_ , Tim thinks, smirking. _You've heard it so many times._

"If I want to touch my pathetic body..."

 _Your beautiful, tender, sensitive, gooey body that I love_ , Tim thinks.

These are all synonyms.

The choice depends on whether it's an ode or a lewd quatrain sung while lying wasted in the ditch.

The effect's the same.

"Or..."

The knuckles slowly get in.

"Oh fuck. Or... Fuck. Or other... Or otherfuck. Fuck."

"Otherwise."

They could have moved to the actual fisting right now, it's just a matter of adding a bit more lube, but this is way, way too delicious.

"God. Or... Or otherwise. Amuse. Myself..."

And he is a monster.

"I uh... I have to ask you. First."

The monster smiles.

"Yeah," he says, running his finger over the length of Ginger's cock swaying there before his eyes up in the air.

Fucking _rules_ don't apply to him, now do they.

"And what else should you do when you ask me?"

Ginger shudders. Ginger's going to cry.

Delicious.

"I should..."

So, so helpless.

"Tell you. What. I---"

"Want."

"Want. And. And exactly---"

"Why."

"Why. I want it."

  
John says nothing, but Ginger...

  
Ginger tells him everything.

  
"Alright," Tim nods, smiling, and pulls his hand out of Ginger's hole, Ginger moaning at the loss. "That's it." Tim circles the soft edges with his fingers. One by one. "Now relax."

Ginger sniffs, biting his lower lip, several tears running down his face.

"Relax. It's all fine. I'm only gonna bite into you if you want that, okay? I love you. No double meaning."

Ginger laughs a bit, a few more tears falling off his eyelashes.

"I actually didn't mind seeing your defenseless gulping throat, you know," Tim continues, referring to the beginning of the interrogation. "I didn't mind that at all. I've profound feelings for your throat as well."

A bit of word play.

Ginger smiles. 

Ginger knows how to read his poetry.

"But I just don't wanna miss anything, squid," Tim goes on, slipping his fingers in and out of his hole. One by one. "I mean, if you want to... Well, exist solely for me." Ginger moans at every touch. And every turn of phrase. Appreciative fucking listener he is. "If you want that, I don't want to miss a single fucking thing. I want it all."

The classics.

"I know," Ginger says. 

Ginger might be an amateur, but he knows the goddamn classics.

Tim'll fucking die for him to know them.

"I want it too," Ginger says.

For that - for that Tim has commited war crimes.

"Okay," Tim says, brushing his fingers over Ginger's hole one last time. "Good." He picks up the lube. "Are your legs okay? Or do you want to put them on my shoulders?"

"Yeah, I uh... Yes. They're a bit tired."

Tim huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh.

They shift.

Tim places Ginger's legs on his shoulders and kisses his knee, pouring lube onto his hole and sheets and his own palm and maybe even on the fucking ceiling.

"Give me your hand," he says, and Ginger does. "I'll hold your scared fingers."

Ginger hums out something between a _thank you_ and his last breath.

"And look at me," Tim says, his slippery hand hovering next to Ginger's slick hole. "I'm here for you."

  
Ginger says nothing. 

  
Ginger moans with an open mouth, frightened, waiting to be hurt, his fingers trembling, sweaty, grabbing at Tim's hand - please hold me while you murder me, ha - and Tim slowly pushes his fist inside of him, diving into the tight slippery heat and watching Ginger's doomed face.

"Oh, nice," Tim says, turning his fist a little as it sinks in, knuckles pulling at the tender tissue. "Love what you've done with the place. Is that an IKEA mantel shelf? So cute. IKEA is the best."

He's hitched in him all the way to his carpal bones.

It might be hard to laugh when there is a warhead in your ass, so Ginger cries instead, letting out noises that sound hysterical.

"Relax," Tim says, squeezing his anxious fingers in his own. "It's in. It's fine. I'm not gonna hurt you."

He bends, lifting Ginger's hand he's holding and planting a kiss on the back of his palm.

"I'm not gonna hurt you this time," he repeats, glancing at Ginger and touching his hand's posterior with his lips, while his fist's enjoying the interior design of his hole. "I'll be so sweet my cock will be dripping honey."

Ginger smiles, biting his lips, and nods.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'm okay."

Tim hums in response, straightening up without releasing Ginger's hand, and wriggles his fist inside him experimentally.

"Alright," he says. "So let's fuck you up, shall we?"

  
Because they are in agreement, things progress much faster.

Must be some classical mechanics law or something, Tim's not fucking sure. His fist is moving inside of Ginger, and he's drawn in. He's pressed to the glass of the showcase with his face by triple _g._ Gravity is pretty fun when you're propelled by controlled - or not so much - nuclear explosions.

Also it is a bit like a fuck kaleidoscope, where when you rotate it you get to see how your loved ones fall apart.

Much better than the regular colored paper bullshit.

  
Tim turns his fist inside of Ginger, pushing it in and out, slow, deliberate, precise and clement, and Ginger stares at him, wide-eyed, and breathes out moans, and things Tim can't describe light up his face, while tremors Tim can't have enough of rip through his body, his hole pulsing around Tim's hand.

Tim wants him.

Tim thinks of diving deeper, thrusting his whole arm in there, up to the elbow, further, of tearing through his stomach, of seeing him terrified, of him screaming, of his screams muffled by a pillow, by duct tape, by his own hand - his own hand he kisses, because of course he'd kiss it, Tim thinks of vile things he's full of just like those plastic tubes are full of shiny trash.

Tim thinks of all of that and more, and does the very opposite. He's so sweet he must be banned by the WHO. Condemned by it. Treated as a major threat.

It is the most placid fisting he's ever given, witnessed or enjoyed himself.

It's fucking _fluffy._

  
Yet - Ginger knows what it is he's thinking of.

  
Ginger's hard.

  
"Tim," Ginger says.

He's been trying Tim's patience for the last two minutes with his throat, gulping, torturing Tim with it, that must be his personal penalty in hell, looking at Ginger's throat without biting into it, without feasting on it, gobbling down the blood, though today eternal punishment is pretty mild, because at least it isn't arched, his fucking neck, because he's looking at him or sometimes at his cock, clearly attempting to find peace there and finding more of what he was seeking to escape, but it is not entirely benign, because Ginger's fingers are trembling against his, scraping his palm, so sweaty they are almost melting, so polite in their requests Tim disregards, because the walls of Ginger's secret fucking passage are soft and warm and wet around his fist, because he slides right past them and there are other sounds, not just Ginger's moans, obscene, pornographic sounds, the one his fist would make if he punched it through Ginger's stomach and shoved his face into the wound, his face, his hands and his enormous teeth, because Ginger moans, letting out crippled phonemes, because his whole body and his essence longs for something, because his insides are pulsing while Tim keeps his fist in him, because he wants something, he fucking _wants_ , but he's not saying what, he's not even asking for it.

Tim wants all of it.

"What?" he says.

You think it's not your right? Okay, fine, then it is mine. Now bow and beg.

So fucking amenable. Accomodating.

And then...

"I uh..."

Supportive humming.

"I want to... To open my mouth."

Now thoughtful.

"How? It is already kind of open."

It is, because Tim is being fucking crucified.

But like, as the Devil.

Fuck, can he seriously be expected not to confuse every single thing? He's in the middle of fisting the giant squid he loves.

Then some pathetic noises.

Do squid make noises?

Fuck.

"Uh... I want to... Wider. I want to open it wider."

Some emphasized surprise.

"How wide?"

Blood on his tongue and exhales. Then...

"Uh... Fuck. Wide. Like..."

"Yeah?"

"Like when I'm... Like when I'm sucking you."

Some appreciation of the whole concept. And blood. And pulsing around his fist. 

"Hm," some getting an idea of his own. "And why would you want that?"

A short pained sob. But no complaining. This shit's illegal. But the hostage has developed a pathological affection for the captor.

"Because... Fuck. Because I want to come."

I don't quite understand what you mean, I am not from here, can you elaborate - that sort of hum.

"How's that related? Wide open mouths and orgasms. I don't get it."

Some laughing and some tears. Some things would've been thrown at him, were they not engaged in interrogative fisting.

"I uh... God. I'll come. If I. Open my mouth. And you... Fuck. And you see that. Fuck, Tim."

Some furrowed brows. Like he's really, really obtuse.

"Why? Why would you come?"

Some swearing, some mantras of his name again.

"Because it..."

Oh shit, that is going to be a tricky one.

"Fuck. Fuck. Because it... Makes me. Uh---"

"Hot."

A nod. A miserable one.

"How? How does it make you hot? Me seeing you with a wide open mouth."

Another sob, longer now. Anguish.

"It... Fuck. Because... Because I'll think of sucking you. And you'll know."

A smile. Actually kind of tender. Plutonium is melting.

"Okay. But what of it?"

Ginger's in such an agony there might be a premature ending.

Which would be a shame. 

Which would be fun - cruel - but this is not about fun. He's promised. He hasn't yet made his point.

"God, Tim. It's... I just like. I just like sucking you. I like you... In my mouth. Inside... Inside of me."

Or he himself might fucking die in here.

Of cock mortification. Of nuclear heart attack. Of fucking love and fucking guilt. Of being ended by the giant squid.

"Fuck," he says. "Ginger."

Then - the process being runaway.

"I like... Oh fuck, Tim. I like... I like being your food, Tim."

  
That does it.

  
Tim is fucking gone.

  
"You are," he says. He could've said _I know_ or _me too_ or nothing, but he says _you are_. "You fucking are, Ginger. Come on. Do it. Do whatever you fucking want."

  
And with that coarse blessing their fluffy fisting exercise is terminated.

With that Ginger nods and smiles, seeing his haunted face through his tempting tears, with that he blushes, opening his mouth, soft lips he likes being kissed and ravaged, defiled oral cavity Tim shoves fuck knows what in, devoted tongue that's only interested in helping to form Tim's name or being stuck in Tim's hole, bleeding insides, all given to him, everything, everything he wants and won't be missing.

With that Tim bends, lifting his hand, turning it around awkwardly, with that he presses his mouth to Ginger's wrist, kissing his pulse.

With that he also turns his fist, because he's figured it's the fucking knuckles that are going to end him, and feels vibration.

With that he looks at how Ginger comes staring at him, thinking of sucking him, of being an opening for him - two openings - of letting him as deep as he can and past that, all the way in, of being his food, seeing Tim staring back at him, knowing he's thinking of surrendering before him and for him, wanting that and doing that and maybe, fuck, please, maybe feeling that he's not Tim's, he is his fucking own.

That Tim is there for him.

  
Though Tim isn't really there.

  
But obviously, even without being present, with being gone and dead and non-existent, Tim comes in Ginger's mouth he opened when he was coming, and when they repeat the exercise, because the leap year now happens once in four months or something and Tim uses a really messy calendar, Tim mentions John, when Ginger's mouth and Ginger opening it for him becomes a hot topic ones again, Tim mentions John and Ginger comes, says _yes_ , but John says nothing, because John isn't there with them in the room that time either.

When John is, he says _god, you're so fucking hot._

Not to Tim, of course.

To Tim John says _fuck off Tim, I am not doing that._

But this is screwing up the already messed up time keeping system, so better not to run ahead of the events.

So...

  
So when Earth's tilted axis causes the change in light and heat absorption, John says _god, you're so fucking hot_. Sounding kind of whining.

And Tim is mostly silent, but not entirely, he offers help from time to time, he holds Ginger's head in his lap, playing with his hair, pulling at it in a familiar attempt to calm him down by being cruel to him, combing it because it feels smooth and silky between his fingers and he loves every particle of him, he runs his palms over Ginger's sweaty shaking shoulders in an abhorrent manner without saying _shhh, relax_ , he holds him, heartless fingers finding their way into his mouth, collecting the short syllable of John's name Ginger keeps saying and saliva, saliva he then smears over his lips, his chin, his face, he says _no, push harder, he likes it, he's just being difficult_ , when John tenses up and hesitates, he says _hey, be careful, he is not me, he is an anal virgin_ , when John's pupils dilate too much, his monster overly excited, he says _not that careful_ , when John gets scared of what he's doing there.

 _Hurt him_ , Tim says.

He holds Ginger's head in his lap, poking his fingers in his mouth, and looks at Ginger's trembling naked body trapped between him and John, and at John's troubled visage, at the infoscreen of his expressions, he doesn't see exactly what kind of magic John's fingers are performing in Ginger's tender hole, he doesn't see what's on Ginger's pale face, what cocktails John is drinking, he only sees the effects they have on John's mental state, and that is enough for him to operate.

That's more than enough for him.

So he says _you aren't here to be wary with him, John_ , he says t _hat's not what you want from him_ , he says _that's not what you both want_ , and it isn't, they are both contaminated by his poison, so he says _hurt him._

  
It is still fluffy.

  
It's fluffy, because the main reason for it to be a nasty, ugly torture scene of an exercise is sitting there mostly silent, uttering instructions from time to time, but causing no interference, it is because both the main reason and the worried monster have already come and because they've talked, John sucked Tim off, there was some slapping, Tim ate John out, there was a lot of whining, they lied half-dead on the bed waiting for Ginger to return home and then repeated the preparations to make sure they are as tranquil as the waters of the ocean in a standstill, and also, before that, all three of them had a lengthy chat, _yeah, I've gotten to him_ , Tim admitted, dodging socks, _yeah, nothing is enough for me_ , Tim said, accepting blame, _yeah, he's my food and it is up to me to mash him the way I want to_ , Tim said, signing the paper with _I am exactly that kind of a person_ written in Ginger's blood on it, _calm down, he fucking liked it_ , Tim said then, _I did, I do, I like it_ , Ginger said, _I want, I want you to, to, to do it to me too_ , he said, and John stared at him with wide eyes and teeth that can pierce the floor poking out of his mouth, with teeth he still struggled to see. 

What John then saw, though, was Ginger's face, his I-am-being-fisted-by-a-shark expression, John heard some words, some words Tim'd been hearing, some pleas, some prayers, some broken breaths exhaled from Ginger's open mouth he asked John to fill - to take, to fuck, to have, to hurt, to eat, what John then did was looked down at Ginger through the sizzling tears and fucked his face, holding his head and thrusting in and out, his heavenly hand gripping Ginger's lower jaw the only thing Tim could see apart from John's sizzling tears and well, Ginger's hole he was punching with his hideous extremity, with his horrible heartless fist Ginger clenched tight around while coming and being two openings for him and John and wailing, what John then did was stayed in bed with Ginger, hugging with him, tired, sleepy, talking, while Tim sat in the kitchen lighting up and putting out cigarettes he smoked as he was looking at the metal box with spices he couldn't really see.

  
So now it is fluffy, and Tim can't see the process he's guiding, giving advice on how best to consume seafood from time to time, but he can listen and he does, he hears Ginger moaning, touching his wet exhales with his fingers, touching his soft warm lips, he hears John asking him if he's alright, if this or that's okay, if his fingers stretching him feel good, if he wants more, if he likes it, and, oh, he fucking does, he hears Ginger saying _yes_ and _John_ and not much else, just _yes_ and _John_ again, again, again, he hears John saying _you're so fucking hot_ to Ginger and it is fluffy, even though Tim sees... traces. Tim looks at Ginger's naked body, trembling between him and John, at John's focused visage, beautiful, with furrowed brow and bitten lips, Tim looks at air full of particles travelling between them and sees marks. Abrasions. Dents made by his teeth. 

But it is fluffy.

Because he's been bending backwards, kickstarting a new universe, because he can't, he simply won't fuck this thing up.

This wondrous thing he once created.

  
The wondrous thing pants, intermixing with itself, and Tim puts his helping hands on Ginger's shoulders, lifting him a bit, his head now pressing into his stomach.

"That's enough," he says, and John stops, eyeing him. "Come on. Do it." John doesn't move, not yet. "Or do you want him to beg you?" He isn't being judgy. He sure as hell wants that himself. It's _tasty_. "Because he will." 

He puts his fingers in Ginger's hair.

"John," Ginger breathes out.

John picks up the lube and coats his whole hand in it.

"Look," Tim says, holding Ginger.

John's hand must hover just for a few moments right next to Ginger's soft, stretched, compliant hole, it simply must, Tim knows that, but then John moves, and it slowly, slowly, so slowly it gets inside.

John looks.

  
Tim looks too.

  
"Bon appetit," Tim says, chuckling, and keeps holding Ginger's head up for John to see his feverish pale face while he studies his insides, rotating knuckles causing shudders - Ginger's told him, fuck, he must have told him - and that's the last thing he says, he just sits there as if he's made of stone, as if he is a dead tectonic plate that won't move in anybody's lifetime, he doesn't even breathe while the eruptions bring lava into the waters of the ocean, steam raising to the skies, he doesn't breathe, watching John turn completely black, into a fucking portal to the underworld, smooth and slick and glowing, alien and ugly, he doesn't breathe, watching how the molten rock covers Ginger's entire body, his trembling naked body he's holding, how it burns, becoming coal, becoming ashes, becoming nothing, evaporating in the heat, he doesn't breathe, he doesn't see and doesn't hear, he's lost in the reflections of himself and in the two of them, but Ginger's trembling naked body tenses up, his sweaty shoulders shaking, and he knows those signs, he saw them back when he could see, and John's eyes question Ginger, John's obscenely whining mouth, it's not an interrogation, it's urging, it's inciting, it's that... that _let's drag the table closer and steal those sweets from the top shelf together_ thing Tim's never been a part of because he isn't into candy, and even though he doesn't breathe and knows nothing about what is happening in there, it's not just lava that fills the room, it's chocolate as well, and sure, he knows nothing, it's a fucking mystery to him, it's magic, but Ginger says _John_ and John says _yes_ and John's face shatters when Ginger opens his mouth for him, pathetic moans and fear and surrender, everything, John's face escapes through the atmosphere as photons when Ginger comes for him, both idiots sobbing as if someone dear to them has died, and even though Tim isn't there, he still gets up, laying Ginger on the bed, pouring him onto the sheets, even though he shouldn't have been there to begin with, he stands next to the bed, towering above the morons, while John lands gracefully on top of Ginger's plasma and enters him, sliding in his soft, stretch, compliant hole, and fucks him, holding him, and comes in him, hugging him, and kisses him, hurting him.

  
There was a moment when John's free hand gripped Ginger's thigh too tight, when his fingers dug in, when he was afraid of being a cause of pain and was a cause of pain.

There was a moment when Tim smiled and said _shhh, relax_ , said _hey, you dumbass_ , said _you're hurting him_.

There was a moment when John bent and kissed the skin he'd been unconsciously tormented.

  
When John kissed the open wound.

  
Tim covers the sugary pile of severed limbs in blankets and goes to the kitchen, and there is a moment, there is this other moment in the long line of moments just like this, when John enters the premises where Tim is standing by the window, lighting up and putting out cigarettes, blind, emptied, absent, trying to look _through_ the glass, there is a moment when Tim jumps, startled, because he's told them he'll go make them something and he's been standing there smiling like a lunatic without knowing he's smiling, thinking instead he's crying, there is a moment when John says his name.

  
"Fuck off, Tim," John says some other day, when Tim gnaws on him, having already witnessed this success. "I'm not doing that."

  
But that is some other day.

  
"Tim, I---" John says, entering the kitchen, and Tim jumps, startled, and wipes his face with his palm quickly, cleaning the void off it, he says _sorry, got lost in thought_ and turns to John.

This isn't John's first visit.

"What?" Tim asks. Tim smiles. _Talk_ , Tim thinks. _I'm here for you._

John sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"He's..." he starts. "He's asleep."

"Okay," Tim nods.

John shifts on his feet, looking around the kitchen, he puts both his hands on his elbows, squeezing slightly, exhaling, never once facing Tim.

Tim wonders from time to time if he should tell him he still can see him when John's avoiding looking at him.

"We've talked."

"Okay."

John sniffs again. Sighs in frustration. Shakes his head. Clenches his fists.

"He said..." Yeah. "He said he's sorry." Yeah. "For... Fuck. For asking me to... Look at him. At how... Fuck."

"Yeah," Tim says. "I know."

John shakes a bit.

"He said he feels... Fuck. That I don't have to... God. Fuck. _Fuck_."

"Yeah," Tim says. "Come here."

John stumbles towards him, crashing heavily into his arms, his angry tears covering Tim's neck. Tim kisses his temple through the hair. Tim hugs him.

"Why the fuck does he think that?" John asks. "He isn't... Ugly. Or... Fuck. Disgusting. He's not. And I... I love him. I don't want him to... I fucking liked it. I fucking like looking at him. He---"

"Yeah."

"Why the fuck does he think that about himself?" John says. "It... I love him so much. It... It fucking hurts me, alright?"

Tim laughs softly, running his palm down John's spine.

"Fuck, he let me..." John says, vibrating, tense. "He let me do this to him. And he still... Fuck, why is he... Why is he so ashamed? It's just... It's just sex. It's... It's me. Fuck."

Tim feels John's fists pressed to his chest. Maybe past it.

"I fucking like it," John says. "I like it when he's like that. His... His fucking mouth. And it's... He's there with _me_. Why is he so ashamed? Doesn't he... Doesn't he fucking understand how that makes me feel?"

Tim laughs again, hugging John tighter.

"Shit, I hope to gods he doesn't, John," he says, and John's fists slam into his metal casing. Tim pats John's whining back. "But I don't think chances of that are very good."

John sniffs and finally looks at him.

Tim wipes his face, takes it in his hands.

"It's okay, John."

John purses his lips.

"No. It's fucked up."

Tim smiles, combing his hair, cupping his cheeks.

"Yeah. But it's okay. Don't be scared."

"I'm---"

“Yeah, sure," Tim chuckles. "Was it good? What else did he tell you? What did you tell him? Did you guys like it?”

He isn't really an infinitely solid tectonic plate, is he?

Just a shark with an appalling filling.

John glances at him, trying for a smile.

"I... Yes. He's..."

"Fucking hot, I know."

John manages a laugh. John sniffs. 

"Yeah. He said he liked my hands. That he always likes them. That it felt good. That I'm... Kind."

Just a really soft shark made of morbid flesh.

He chuckles again, smoothing the cracks on John's face.

"You are."

John exhales sharply, turning away and looking at the wall.

"He... Thanked me." Oh yeah. "And... He said it didn't hurt. That I... You know, fucked him after that. I---"

"Little gooey liar," Tim says, following John's jaw line with his fingers. "Of course it hurt. All of it hurt. Tasty, right?"

Just a soft shark made of flesh that would make a nice volcanic barbecue.

Tim brushes his thumb over John's lower lip, John squinting at him, drilling holes in his snout, and then Tim dives forward, catching John's mouth with his own, licking at his teeth.

"Yeah," he says, withdrawing, smirking. "Tasty."

Sweet.

John boils for a second and another one, and nods.

"What did you like? Did you tell him?"

John takes a large inhale.

"I..." His graceful form hits the water. "How he felt. Inside. Really..." Soft and tender and compliant. "Donno." Ha. "And... How he. Shivered. Shaked. When I... You know, he said he liked the knuckles." Tim hums. "And just... How he looked. That he..." Embarrassed and afraid. "He told me about the mouth. That he..." Tim nods. "Looked fucking---" Painful. "--- hot." Tim smiles. "And just his face. How he looked at me." 

_Little greedy monster_ , Tim thinks.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes," John says. "And how he... Hugged me. When I fucked him." _Oh_ , Tim thinks. _The sweet clinging_. "And that he's fucking beautiful. That I love him. That I really... like him when he's like that. That I want him so much. I want him."

Tim lets out the rumbling produced by his radioactive chest.

"Good," he says. "What did he say?"

John bites his lips.

"That he loves me too. That he'll... That if I want him, then... Fuck, of course I want him. Fuck. That we can do it again. If I want that. And... Other things. Other things too. Anything I---"

Tim laughs, kissing John's ears.

"Anything you want."

John shakes a bit, meandering in his arms.

"He said he liked doing it. And... Me doing it. To him. That he... That he felt happy. He's happy."

Just a really soft shark swimming in an ocean of tears that hopes to gods he is.

"Good," Tim says. "Now fuck off from here and go be with him."

  
John says...

  
John says a very _interesting_ thing.

  
The blue planet keeps rotating, and Tim comes home, chucking the jacket John hasn't yet stolen from him somehow in the corridor and finding John on the couch with a guitar John would've gladly snatched too were it not one of his own already, Tim says _hi_ , getting no response, John too absorbed in the tune he's composing and it's an awesome fucking tune, as usual, and Tim listens to it for a few seconds before going to the bathroom.

There is a blue bulb syringe sitting next to the sink.

Tim frowns, a bit confused, and looks around, and sure enough, there is a box of thin black gloves chilling out near the laundry basket. Tim grins and takes a leak, Tim inspects the fridge, sniffs Ginger's disgusting juice and makes a face, Tim takes a few swigs and pulls the largest tomato he can locate out of the bag. Tim lands on the armrest of the chair opposite of John, sinking his teeth into the overgrown berry, juice running down his chin and arm, and starts going through his notebook.

Some things still have to happen according to a schedule.

"Happy thumping day," he mutters, shuffling the pages. "Is he asleep?" John hums in major key. "Cool. Any issues?" John hums in minor. "Awesome. Happy for you. You guys are great."

John keeps playing.

Tim bangs his head to John's tune, destroying the tomato and staining phone numbers and lists of ancient grocery scribbles, and it takes him a while to realize he's banging his head to silence. He looks around the room, checking the surroundings to make sure it's still the same planet they usually occupy, before lifting his head and looking at John.

"Don't," John says, staring point blank at him.

Tim raises his eyebrows, because... Because the fuck?

"Don't say anything," John says, pursing his lips. Tim makes an attempt to nod. "And don't---" Tim stops in the middle of the motion. Just in case. Because the fuck? "Don't fucking laugh, you know." Tim finishes the nodding and waits for further bans. "And don't..." Tim raises his eyebrows again, urging John on, but John only makes a face, seeing his theatrics. "Just... You know, just... don't. Don't."

Tim opens his mouth silently, gesturing something that means _sure, fine, of course_ with both his hands, but John still drills him with his eyes, so Tim studies his own body for a second and tilts his head, seeing the problem, and puts his hands behind his back, lifting his chin and expecting orders, sitting there on the armrest like a seriously weird tin soldier.

John sizes him up and sighs.

"Okay," he says, looking around the room and finally settling on Tim's not really well-balanced form. "Okay. I..." Tim holds his breath. Because the fuck? The fuck?! "I wanna try too."

Then Tim grins, baring his teeth, Tim sneers, and it is tilted and uneven and also it is so enormous that there is no equilibrium, no longer, the whole fucking rock in space is turning upside down, so Tim flops, flops on the floor and stars laughing, shaking there, a maniac and an epileptic, Tim laughs, uncontrollably and wild, and all of it is reflected at him in the shiny surface of John's guitar.

  
"Fucking careful, you dumb shark," John says.

John's lying on the bed, sweaty, naked and drowning in lube. Some cycles've been completed.

"Shut up and relax," Tim says. "Don't clench. I'm not doing anything extraordinary in here. You've been jumping on two cocks for years. Nothing's gonna happen to your precious ass because of my goddamn fist."

"Fuck off, you piece of trash," John says. "I hate you. Stinky fish."

John's lying on the bed, sweaty, naked, panicking, and Ginger holds his hand, while Tim's hand is gradually getting access to his rectum.

"God," Tim chuckles. "But I'm being so nice. I'm fucking fluffy. I'm not even saying anything about your moronic biased whining you've been scrambling my brains with all this time. I'm not even slightly mocking you. Not even one tiny bit."

"Oh fuck you, you asshole, you're doing that right now," John squeals, spitting out insults, and Tim laughs.  
  
Tim kisses his perfect thigh.

"Squid, give him solace," he says, his fingers pirouetting inside John's ideal hole. "I guess I wasn't made for this."

Tim stares at John's precious ass while the bastards kiss, Ginger whispering something in John's ear, John whimpering, Tim mostly drooling, drooling so much there might be more saliva in his mouth than there is lube up John's rectum he's exploring, he pushes deeper in him, wishing it was his fucking snout that entered those gates, his whole overheating head instead of his heartless fingers, for now four of them plus his eager thumb, and while the bastards kiss the thumb joins in, so Tim stares at his lucky knuckles bumping into the rim of John's flawless hole.

His efforts are approved of. Highly.

"Damn," Tim chuckles again. "You've got the smoothest premises with the most lax regulations I've ever seen. Fuck, why were you even worried about this? Stubborn dumbass."

The stubborn dumbass moans obscenely, his legs shaking, the smoothest premises of his stretched hole enveloping Tim's fingers.

"Fuck off, you pervert," he says, breathless. "Have you fucking seen yourself when you're fisted? You look like a rotting corpse. And your ass is a disgusting roast beef."

The pervert is about to object, to say that yeah, he might be decomposing after anal punching, but John's not him, John's a pretty little thing and no amount of cocks or thumping will ever make his exquisite opening into anything even close to the repulsive steak Tim's ass most definitely is, but then his hand slips inside, his whole fucking fist is in, gets in just like that, as if it's pulled into a vacuum cleaner, and Tim blinks dumbly, staring at his own carpal bones barely escaping incarceration, his drooling mouth wide agape, Tim himself at a loss of words in presence of divinity.

"What?" John asks. "What's happened? Why have you stopped?"

"Uh," Tim says. 

And that is a very powerful expression. That is a fucking speech. That is a hymn, an ode, an overly extended religious scripture, if Tim's state is taken into account. 

Which it should be.

"What?" John asks, irritated. "What's going on? How long is it gonna take?"

"Uh," Tim says.

Tim is in shock. Okay? In shock. He needs a fucking doctor.

"Tim, are you---" Ginger starts, tone concerned.

"It's in," Tim says. "It's in," he says again and laughs.

He needs a fucking shrink.

"What?" John asks, now genuinely furious. "What is? What are you talking about?"

Ginger turns bright red. 

Ginger is the only creature in the room who has any grey matter left.

"My fist," Tim says. "I'm talking about my goddamn fist. It's in."

"What?!" John yells. 

John might need some counseling as well. 

A lot of it.

"My fucking fist is in your ass," Tim says.

And lectures.

"It---" John spits out. "It isn't. Fuck you. It's not! It can't---"

"John, it's fucking in," Tim ejects too. Tim looks at Ginger turning into ashes next to John.

A psychiatric ward? Alzheimer's? Nah. There is not help for him.

"You---" John cuts short Tim's deliberations about their mental states. "Fuck you, you jerk. It's n---"

Tim's joints rotate. Tim's knuckles...

"Fuck!" John cries out. "Oh fuck. I... Fuck, Ginj. Tim. Ginj. Fuck. Oh my---"

"Fucking suck him," Tim hurries out, the blades of his nuclear submarine revolving frantically, John's greedy, grabby, _deadly_ fucking hole contracting around his hand, both colored red, blood coating his vision, and Ginger bends, taking John in his accomodating mouth, John shaking, moaning, loud, deep, low, filthy, his hips jerking up and down, Tim stares at his own lost fin trapped inside the rockslide, at Ginger's adrift head pierced through, at John fucking into Ginger's mouth, open, amenable, relaxed, at John grinding down on his hand he gyrates, straining every little muscle in it because what he wants to use it for is clapping, jumping with his feet that won't support him, he wants to throw that hand up in the air and fucking dance, the fireworks of the eruption falling down on him as if he himself is a piece of shiny trash inside of a kaleidoscope, Tim stares at John's wriggling body, ideal, perfect, fucking impeccable, and he can't see John's face, for now he only enjoys the view of Ginger's that John is fucking, he can't observe what kind of reaction John's inner demon displays to desecration, can't witness the destruction of the marble, can't see the teeth, the horrible, alien thing that... well, that he is fisting, but he'd love to, he'd die to see it, and he would, he would fucking die that instant if he saw that, he'd go blind at such ugliness and beauty and then he'd breathe his last, he'd depart, he'd perish gladly, happily, he would die cheering, and then, then John starts saying really interesting phrases.

obliquity

"Oh fuck, Tim," he says, calling out his name, calling him, calling for help, confiding in him, relying on him, John lifts his head and looks at him. "Tim, God, Tim. Tim. Tim."

Tim hangs in there as John comes, as that monstrous creature that John is relishes relief, Tim stares at it, right in its muzzle, hot, sizzling, spitting fumes and lava, Tim is in awe, Tim's so struck nothing would ever make him sane again, not that he's ever been that, Tim's struck with trepidation, Tim hangs in there for as long as he can and past that while John keeps _invocating_ him, pinning him in place with his wide open, terrified, magnetic eyes, and then, when John finally stops convulsing, spilling in Ginger's moaning mouth and clenching around Tim's astonished hand, then Tim expires.

Tim ceases to exist.

  
What's much more curious, because Tim being stupefied or dazed, Tim wearing his haunted snout, losing his already unsound mind and dying of depravity is not a particularly rare occasion in this planetary area, what's much more strange, bizarre, exceptional, is that when Tim raises from the dead and attempts embarking on a journey to the kitchen to provide nourishment for the kissing hugging chirping bastards engaged in verbal bonding based on manual debauchery he introduced them to, when he attempts to leave them John says something.

John isn't silent.

"Hey, Tim, wait," he says, grabbing at his hand as he gets up, voice tired, fucked out, drousy. "Where are you going?" 

When Tim starts explaining feeding process to him, John cuts him short.

"Fuck it," he says, tugging at his hand while Tim stands there swaying, voice tired, fucked out, insistent, needy. "Fuck the food. Come here. Stay."

  
That.

That's what unusual.

  
Tim falls onto the bed between John and Ginger, and John hugs him. Ginger, needless to say, also molests him, but.

John hugs him.

  
John fucking summons him.


	9. Two, no, three - and a plug

  
"Sweetpie," Ginger calls him.

They are drunk. 

They have been drinking something, drinking alcohol, a lot of it, they drank in gallons, things entered Tim's drunk mouth, things that were not alcohol, he doesn't know what they were, he drank in gallons, and it wasn't cock that made a visit, was something else and also it was vomit, though it, of course, was exiting Tim's mouth, in fucking gallons too, ridiculous, he still won't stop throwing up for no reason, almost as ridiculous as Ginger's been, Ginger who's been drinking is hard to top, loves everybody, very actively, stumbling and awkward, but persistent, two tentacles in a circle around his random victims, first not quite touching, excessive smiles and praise, then simply falling on them, calling them his precious darlings, their every body part the best the drunk squid's ever seen, their fucking lavender eyes and the renaissance art pieces that are their hands and necks and chins and cheeks, their dull fucking blouses and blazers are an apparel of angels, their dull fucking answers to Ginger's biography related questions are tales of extraordinary adventures, and Tim's even more exceptional than them, Ginger dragging him around, posting ads, selling the swaying warhead to them, mumbling, his victims unconvinced, reluctant, Tim reeking of things that entered and then exited his mouth, face contorted, a permanent mask of contempt, disdain threatening to spill out of him, disdain for the whole universe and the pink unicorn and the pink goo Ginger's brains are made of and for himself, he's caused himself such humiliation, he'd been grabbing Ginger, dragged around by him, an invisible leash around Tim's throat, the leash scared just like Ginger's hands, Tim's hands seeking Ginger's butt, Tim obnoxious, laughing, making a dreadful mistake he cannot believe he made for at least two more months, grabbing a foreign butt, the one that belongs to a human being, not to the squid, some poor soul's butt, that poor soul being Ginger in Tim's closed eyes, he couldn't open them, was half asleep, drunk, wasted, obnoxious on his feet, burped out _sorry_ and retreated, Ginger's jelly soon under his navigationally confused hands, Tim trying to get them in his pants while Ginger is promoting him to yet another perfect being, another love of his, declaring Tim his pumpkin as if they are married, _are you married_ , the victims ask them, the crowd is a bit uptight, Tim doesn't know how they even ended up in there, they've been drinking, the make up he is wearing is brighter than that of the ladies present at the party, ladies boring, Tim doesn't know why he's wearing make up, knows that it's purple, purple lipstick, must be Ginger's, he must have found it in Ginger's pants, he hopes in all sincerity those were Ginger's pants, hopes he didn't steal it from some poor soul's pants, he put that lipstick on his face, tried writing something, failed, he's so drunk he is illiterate and Ginger's so drunk that all inhibition's gone, Tim's regular repression useless, Ginger's lips sucking his purple face, _I'll vomit in your motherfucking mouth_ , Tim says in the back seat of the taxi that carries their battered bodies home, in the back seat where the giant squid is downright assaulting him like a particularly commited blanket, clinging to him as if he's about to escape, as if they aren't going home, as if they aren't worse than married, as if Tim isn't wearing the leash that keeps constricting his throat every time Ginger's amatory lips find his, that happening almost every minute, Tim's stomach developing a conditioned reflex to contract exactly when the kiss is initiated.

"I'll vomit in your motherfucking mouth," Tim repeats himself, has lost his eloquence, forgotten he's already said that, he thinks it's new, says that again while they are standing near the house, the taxi driving away, the taxi driver's car drowned in Tim's money, but luckily not in vomit, he says that again while they are swaying next to the front door, hugging, dragging each other down and up and to the left and to the right. 

Tim says that and tries to push the squid away, the squid that has just called him _sweetpie_ while Tim's hands were ravaging his pants, now seeking keys, Ginger showing futile, disorderly resistance both to being searched and to being temporarily released, Tim says that, keys in his sweaty palm, and Ginger giggles like an inebriated moron he in all conscience is.

"What?" Tim smirks, his lips wry, somewhat unfamiliar to him, as if he borrowed them off a friend or not even a friend, just an acquaintance.

"What?" he says. "Are you into that as well? You filthy shit."

H2 and N and O and N and H2 again

He actually might be projecting at that point. He is a nuclear projectile, after all. Drunk on its fins.

And Ginger mumbles something, something that sounds like fuck knows what, that means Tim knows what, something along the lines of _I'm into anything you want_ , with _I love you_ added on top, and if one loves somebody then surely they have to love their vomit too, so their trajectories become more defined once Tim gets his answer, Tim becomes determined, Tim keeps questioning the delinquent squid who's guilty of drunk launching disoriented poisonous missiles, who keeps flapping his tentacles to get even closer to Tim, who's now almost in Tim's lap while Tim's on the floor next to the couch.

Presumably.

His compass doesn't exactly point to the north.

"Won't vomit in your mouth," he says, he's inconsistent, he changed his mind and before that he changed his state of mind, he isn't sober and composed, he's wasted and confused. "Don't fucking like vomiting."

"Okay," Ginger responds, he's still responsive, he says _okay_ in a way that suggests only one thing, that suggests that it was his fucking dream to have Tim's vomit in his mouth, even though it isn't even on his mind, it is on Tim's, because he's fucking nauseated, and Ginger's just in love and his love's profound.

"But I'll do something else instead," Tim says, consoling him.

And what he threatens him with are various exercises and arrangements that are inspired by their shared past and by the pickled juice Tim's dumb shark brains are currently made of, _I'll tie you up_ , he says, makes Ginger happy, overly excited, _stuff every orifice of yours_ , he says, makes Ginger squirm, his lubricated fingers tickling him, it isn't lube they are lubricated with, it is whatever Tim's been putting in his mouth, it's alcohol, and Ginger's also consumed it, Ginger squirms and giggles while Tim's attempting to locate at least one orifice of his, failing magnificently at that, the current taking hold of him, _put you on the bed_ , he says, _all on display for me_ , he says, _your feet, they are ridiculous, your nipples, they are too, I'll pinch them, make you wear the clamps for hours_ , he says, spews out pure nonsense, _your hole, there're gonna be two, no, three dildos in your hole_ , he says, he's overly excited, _your hole is dirty, by the way_ , he says, _you are dirty, ridiculous and dirty, sweaty, fucked, covered in come, saliva, blood, I'll spit on you and there will be blood_ , he says, _I'll slap you so hard there will be blood, there will be shit too, don't you worry_ , he says, _of course, there will be shit, you are shit, you will be eating it, you will be gagged_ , he says, he doesn't know how that would work right now, he's fucking drunk, just talking, cracking up at his own tone of voice, _I sound like a horror film narrator_ , he says, chuckling, Ginger laughing too, Tim tickling him, abandoning his search of orifices and grabbing at his cock, _you've got a boner_ , he says, a grin splitting his face in half, _sea pervert_ , he says, _like hearing that_ , he asks, _join in_ , he says, _I'll document it_ , he says, _I'll take pictures, maybe a video, it's gonna be your business fucking card, it's gonna be my fucking wallpaper, I'll fucking frame it and put it up right there_ , he says, gesturing at the wall. 

If that's the wall. 

The current's dragged him to an exotic, foreign place, and maybe he is at the north pole or at the south pole, maybe he is in the middle of a magnetic anomaly, the only thing he's reasonably sure of is that it is Ginger's cock that he is holding, with any luck, it is, it is not an exotic, foreign cock, it's Ginger's familiar, domestic cock, Ginger's familiar, domestic goo around him, he's lost in it, lost in the ocean, can't even follow the stars to find his way, there are two many stars rotating around his heavy head, fucking balls of boiling plasma and fucking gravity, gravity that's pulling Ginger towards him too, or maybe his gooey pathetic drunk squid body is caught in the blades of Tim's screw propeller, Tim's ship carrying him away, to the exotic, foreign places Tim's puddling about at, _it's gonna be a museum fucking exhibit_ , Tim spews his pure nonsense out, _a modern Mona Lisa, spit, shit, come, blood, all an enigma_ , Ginger's a cockeyed enigma, _hey, keep up_ , Tim says, _don't lag behind_ , Tim says, _join in_ , Tim insists, _aren't we a team_ , Tim questions Ginger, _what should I do to you_ , he asks, _offer yourself to me_ , he orders, _let's brainstorm this_ , he says and there is a storm inside his brain, directions mixed, there is a storm in both their brains.

"You could..." Ginger offers.

"You could pee on me," Ginger whispers, and Tim vomits in his own mouth, laughing, coughing, retching on the floor.

It _is_ the floor.

Floor is his home.

"Jesus," Tim says, when his seizure's over, looking at Ginger's tranquil, nonsensical, dead drunk face. 

"You're baked, aren't you?" Tim says. 

_Maybe fried_ , he thinks, distracted for a fraction of a second.

 _Parsley and garlic_ , he thinks.

"Why would I pee on you?" Tim asks, his dead and decomposing drunk face contorting at such bad taste. "That's ridiculous. That's dumb."

As if what _he_ 's just been saying was a paragon of sense and high intelligence and not just drivel.

He mentioned collars, for fuck's sake. 

Three dildos. Taking videos. 

_I'll drag you out on a leash_ , he said, switched to that topic after he quit obsessing about Ginger's nipples he'd been swearing would never enjoy any liberty again, but would be observed and applauded by large crowds, _not just at home_ , he said, _everywhere and everyday_ , he said, _and a plug_ , he added quickly, the pickled juice of his shark brains bouncing off his skull, _you'll fucking play like that_ , he said and chuckled, _what am I turning into_ , he then thought, _who am I turning into_ , he thought after that, again amused, the last grains of his grey matter dissolved in alcohol, he switched the topic of the conversation, trying to escape extinction, but evolutionary degradation still caught up with him, so he spoke of leashes and he mentioned collars.

As if he occupies himself by _jerking_ things.

As if he's _krill_.

But still. What Ginger says is dumb.

Though it is not that what he said before was a dissertation.

It went like this.

"I'll vomit in your motherfucking mouth," Tim said and then he changed his statement, he said he wouldn't.

"Okay," Ginger breathed out, blinking at him.

"But I'll do something else instead," Tim reassured him. "Because you'd let me. You always let me, don't you?"

"Yeah," Ginger nodded. "I love you."

Tim was attacked by tentacles he didn't care to count then, there were too many, Ginger's dead weight on his broken neck. 

_That_ is his leash.

"Right," Tim said, said in Ginger's ear. "So much that you'd do anything. All sorts of bullshit."

Ginger moaned his agreement. Muttered something about Tim's pretty face while cupping Tim's realistically speaking punch-drunk mug. 

Tim snorted.

"Sure," he said. "You'd get to admire my exquisite features while I torture the shit out of you. I'll put you on the bed on your back. I'll skin you and I'll gut you and I'll stuff you and then I'll fold you. Like a fucking dumpling."

Ginger giggled. 

Babbled for ages about fucking dumplings he'd tried last month and had been meaning to try making for Tim, but hadn't told him, had been trying on his own and failing.

Tim snorted.

"Cute," he said. "They'll suck."

Then space and time went blank. 

Then Ginger was sucking on his fingers, failing too, Tim's fingers falling out of his mouth, his speech apparatus generating phonemes of a language Tim doesn't speak, that's spoken on some distant, foreign island, generating soundwaves that were pushing Tim's fingers out, Ginger's pirouetting tongue lost around them.

"My legs will hurt," Ginger informed him, once his fingers were exempt.

A worried nerdy victim of maltreatment he is.

Tim frowned.

"Ah," he said. "Well, I'll tie you up."

"But dumplings..." Ginger said, and they discussed Bavarian cuisine and Ginger was reactionary, Tim revolutionary, _I said I'd fucking tie up a dumpling and I will_ , he said, _but you don't need to_ , Ginger then said, _I could just lie still for you_ , he said, that sounded great, felt like fresh blood on Tim's tongue, then it was puke again, because the squid switched to molesting him with terms of endearment, _I am not a pie_ , Tim said, _shut up_ , Tim said, _shut your dumb mouth or I'll gag you_.

"You're a pie," Tim said. "A fucking dumpling with ridiculous feet up in the air. They are ridiculous. I bet you'd get roaring fucking hard if I merely look at them."

Merely. Ha. As if he really said that. As if he could back then. As if it wasn't just phonetic porridge.

sxf 08/17 20:50 or txl 08/18 06:10 or txl 08/18 12:40 but sucky

Phonetic porridge was definitely in his ear, Ginger's wet tongue in his ear too, it might've treaded in some other people's ears before that, in the ears of that uptight crowd Ginger felt in love with more and more with every shot he downed.

"It tickles when you lick the soles," Ginger said, a sphinxlike smile on his lips, he bit the lower one, looked fucking shy, _organic_ , got on Tim's nerves, Tim triggered his nerve endings, tickling him, was not the soles, he wouldn't have fucking found them had he tried.

What Tim did find was his nipples.

Not right away, the owner had to help him, the owner didn't know what his possessions were, where they were, the cloth they were covered with not the wifebeater, but John's goddamn shirt that just slid down when he yanked it up, Tim pushed his stupid tentacles away, that was when his discovery was made.

"Ridiculous," Tim said, grinning, observing the glowing expanse of Ginger's face, his skin on fire, Tim's fingers pinching him, Ginger pinned by them and anxious, skittish, as if it weren't his own fucking nipples Tim was pinching, as if he borrowed them off a friend or an acquaintance and then forgot to give them back and made things awkward. "I'll fucking put you in clamps forever once I dig them out. You'll wear them for hours. I'll fucking pull you along by that damn chain. Nippleleash."

"At home?" Ginger asked, invited him to continue, like a good heretic who always knows what to expect from the inquisitor that he most definitely is.

"You're right, home's old news," Tim reached a far-flung conclusion. "At the fucking store. While I'm buying pickles."

"And a plug," Ginger responded, his fucking tongue again a plug for Tim's ears, his silly laughter still reaching Tim's otoliths.

 _Plugs are sold at a different store_ , Tim briefly thought against his own will.

Such disgrace.

"Fuck the plugs," he said, scraping up some grey matter. "I've got bigger plans for your filthy hole."

That's when multiplying dildos entered their conversation, and, chances are, Tim had inroduced the plugs to the dialogue as well, had spoken of them first, had thought of balance that would be reached if a gag was in Ginger's mouth that's full of sugar and a plug in Ginger's hole that's... Well. It probably had been him, most likely, Ginger's giggling supplement sounding like a quote, Ginger's face hot, pressed tight to Tim's.

Anyway, then it was addition, calculating totals, Ginger obviously was counting too, a fucking bookkeeper, _two dildos_ , Tim said, which was already daring, _no, three_ , made a correction, way too enlivened for a corpse that's chilling out on the floor, inspired by Ginger's nipples he wouldn't for the love of god let go of, inspired by the vibrations of Ginger's blasted body.

Two, three...

"Four," Ginger said, a fucking cash machine, and Tim laughed like mad.

"We don't have four, you idiot," he said, grabbing Ginger's chin. "Also, they wouldn't fit. You're an anal maiden."

And that is true, though Tim was not much of a philanderer, not at the moment, but the vestal squid himself was quite active, his trembling sprouts in tumbling pursuit of something on Tim's casing.

"Where did you get this shirt?" the maiden voiced a question. "Looks so good on you."

Dull clothing items bringing out everybody's unprecedented beauty was definitely a recurring topic of their evening.

Or any evening when Ginger's drinking.

Tim snorted.

"It's yours, you moron," he said. "God, you're ridiculous."

A drunken warhead was also quite funny, but Ginger didn't know that, he blushed, staring in Tim's exceptionally blue and enchanting eyes - _dude, you live with me_ , Tim had replied to that statement earlier, _we're like fucking married_ \- and that was all the inspiration that Tim ever needed.

"Ridiculous and dirty," he went on talking. "Do you have any idea how you look when I really fuck you up?"

And Ginger flapped like a self-conscious flag and whined.

Tim grabbed him by his hair. He didn't miss.

"Ruined," he said. "You look ruined. You will be ruined. All sweaty, drooling, covered in come, I'll fuck your stinky shit with three dildos and you'll come like a motherfucker like you always do, I'll slap you, slap you so hard there will be blood and spit on you, tickle your feet until you start crying like you always do, you will be panting, covered in all sorts of stuff and red, not just your dumb face, but your fucked up hole and your fucking nipples too and also your gag."

"Purple," Ginger said.

Not right away, of course, first he squirmed and trembled, whimpered like a tied up organic dumpling and said _okay_ to Tim's every proposition and said _yeah_ if Tim was slow in producing verbal garbage.

"What?" Tim asked.

"The gag," Ginger explained, luckily before Tim had time to think. Not that he really could think at the moment. "Purple."

"Ah," Tim said and nodded. "Sure. Red's for me."

So they agreed that Ginger will be gagged and that his gag will be colored purple and Tim reiterated everything he'd said before, fluctuating, he was unsteady, so things got added despite real life restrictions.

"And shit," Tim added. "Spit, blood, come, sweat and shit, don't you worry, of course, there will be shit. I'll feed it to you. Off every dildo. All three of them."

"Four," Ginger mumbled, and Tim shaked on the floor, laughing.

"Dumbass," he said. "There're only three of them. But you'll suck them all. You'll be lying there with your fucked up hole for me to see and I'll wipe your crap on you and make you lick it."

"Yeah," Ginger breathed out.

That added at least two, three, four nautical miles to Tim's veering course.

"Or no," Tim sneered. "Why would I need to make you? You'll beg for it yourself, won't you?"

"Yeah," Ginger whispered again, was never very eloquent, but the knots Tim's demented ship was cruising at doubled and tripled and quadrupled.

It might have been back when Tim was retelling his own evil plan that he made a comment about horror film narrators.

Because right then he disembarked.

"You've got a boner," he said, locating gold and precious gems of the exotic, foreign island he stepped on, grabbing at Ginger's awesome cock through his - originally Tim's - pants. "Sea pervert. Like hearing that?"

Or it might have been a follow up to this sinister enquiry of his.

The follow up that Ginger offered him was a pathetic hum and a pathetic push of his pathetic hips into Tim's palm.

"Join in then," Tim said, smiling a tender shark smile at him. "Tell me, what else should I do to you?"

"Maybe..." Ginger said, eyes on Tim's sneering lips, but unfocused. "A picture."

That...

How come it wasn't Tim's fucking idea?

Tim purred.

"Yeah, right," he said. He'd been obsessing about taking pictures for at least two, three, four years, hadn't he. "I'll document your downfall. Maybe make a video."

"A picture," Ginger said. Insistent jelly.

Tim chuckled.

"Alright, calm down," he said, trying to grab Ginger by his shoulders and break his fall. "I'll take that fucking picture you want so much and it's gonna be your business fucking card."

Then Ginger giggled and still fell on him like a lump of goo and wobbly sprouts and said _of you_.

"Of you," he said, wet against Tim's neck, his infringing tentacles on Tim's shoulders. "Fuck, Tim, you're so pretty."

Maybe he also called him fucking _darling._

Most likely.

Tim pushed him away.

"Alright, calm down," he said, making Ginger fall this time and crushing down on him too. "We'll take all the pictures in the world. The one with you thoroughly fucked up is gonna be my fucking wallpaper."

Thoroughly.

Ha.

"Okay," Ginger said, laughed softly, hugging him, clinging to him like glue, like fucking goo. 

"I'll fucking frame it," Tim whispered in his ear, voice deep and low, looming, drunken menace stinking of bile. "Put it up right there."

He gestured at the wall - that was the ceiling - he talked about rooms turned into museums, about making an exhibit, said Ginger looked like Mona Lisa, called him an enigma, and Ginger called him _sweetheart_ and said that he looked gorgeous and Tim told him to shut up and shook him and then slapped him, put a hand around his throat, spoke of leashes, collars, of playing shows with a plug up his ass, _and a plug_ , he added quickly, _and a plug_ , Ginger said too, they giggled like two idiots as if it was their best fucking joke, they were lying there on the floor, a stupid pile of damaged, shaking limbs, Tim on top of Ginger, feeling his boner with his thigh.

"Hey," he said, pulling Ginger's cock out. "Keep up. Don't lag behind. We're a fucking team."

And Ginger arched into his touch, offered himself to him, Tim didn't have to say that, did he.

"What should I do to you?" he asked. "Let's brainstorm this."

And they did and they agreed that Tim should fuck him, slap him, gag him, make him come and red and cry and sweat, make him ruined, cover him in blood and spit and shit and then uncover him, make him a public treasure, put all of it on film, put him on stage, collared and nipplechained and leashed, he should do all of that and more, Tim asked for more, the list was not exhaustive in his blurry eyes.

That's when what Ginger said became really dumb.

"You could..." he said. "You could pee on me."

That's how it went and this is how it's going further.

"That's dumb," Tim says, shaking his head. "You idiot. You're a _shit_ squid. That's different species."

Wasted marine biologist he is.

"So..." Ginger mutters, confusion, shame, fear and affection mixing on his face just like what he'd been downing was mixing in his guts. "So you wouldn't?"

His questions are cocktails too.

Tim snorts.

"Fuck, no," he says, snorting, and keeps snorting while stuffing his chatty orifice with Ginger's boner, it's not his best performance, it's quite possibly his worst, not even a performance, oral embarrassment with a lot of gurgling, that's what it is, reversion happening to his language acquisition and overall development, so now not even babbling is the stage he finds himself at, his memory sucks too, there're simply no structures in his brain that can support it, it's liquid and he's no krill, he's a tadpole, which is kind of lucky, because if he were to reminisce while snorting with Ginger's cock in his mouth, he'd realize that Ginger's almost comatose, that Ginger's dozing off, that Ginger's fast asleep, that Ginger has passed out with no impressions of Tim's labial and lingual efforts left in the pink goo that is awashing his inner cranium, and wouldn't being aware of this humiliation, the second one that he brings on himself that evening, wouldn't it be the last straw that breaks the shark's already broken back.

But luckily, he doesn't reminisce and doesn't realize and simply falls asleep as well, he passes out on the floor at Ginger's feet.

And that is fitting.

  
"Uh?" Ginger says, his voice as dry as pulp, his face as wrinkled as papier-mâché that's made of pulp, but much less colorful than the papier-mâché handicrafts themselves, it's pale as starch, and also he's swaying, the waterfall of liquid waste he's discharging threatening to flood the tiles in the bathroom.

  
They are hangover.

They are hangover, and Tim hates hangovers, he's not a suckling anymore, he's at least as old as all of space and time and their contents and also that stealthy equine creature that left a giant pile of crap in his crisp mouth, and his shoulders, they are ancient ruins, they hurt like fuck and so does his head while he's violating his crisp mouth with a toothbrush, trying to expel the horseshit out of it, and it is not that he's categorically opposed to excrements, he's not, it's just again wrong species, he has no interest in unicorns and their feces have no business being in his mouth and in his throat, so he is assaulting them, provoking his pitiful gag reflex once again, coughing and retching, bent over the sink, and Ginger, well, his tentacles are on the water tank, that white surface a part of the flush toilet, and on the pink goo tank, that white surface his no doubt aching forehead, he's holding his position for a while, then changing it, finally using the plumbing fixture the way it was intended to be used, drawing Tim's attention to himself.

"Hey," Tim says, shaking his admiration of Ginger's bladder off, shaking his head too, which is a mistake, because it fucking hurts, the haze of their drunk night out getting more and more clear to him. "Why don't you pee on _me_?"

"Uh?" Ginger says, turning to look at him, which is also an oversight, they shouldn't move at all, they should be statues, stationary objects, because movement equals pain in Tim's brand new branch of physics. "What?"

Tim spits out the fairy horseshit, toothpaste, bile, powdery saliva and possibly some blood - but no come, there's no come in his disgrace of an oral cavity - and wipes his desecrated mouth with the back of his hand.

"You offered me to pee on you last night," he says and grins.

That stops the current Ginger was producing.

Tim is hangover, but again effective.

"What?" Ginger breathes out, all dehydrated consonants. "Really?"

"Yeah," Tim chuckles, showing him his exceptionally clean teeth.

 _Don't know what's gotten into you_ , he thinks.

 _Don't know what's gotten into me_ , he thinks.

 _But if I learn_ , he thinks, _I'm never drinking that fucking slop again._

A strong-willed teetotaller he is.

"Yeah," he says, and Ginger responds with _fuck_ and blushes.

 _Mardi Gras_ , Tim thinks.

"You're fucking cute when you're drunk," Tim says. 

And well, he, most likely, was cute this time too, but he wasn't the only one who got wasted, Tim showed camaraderie, was obnoxious - he isn't fucking cute - was hauled to distant places by the currents, didn't notice many things and is still suffering the early symptoms of Alzheimer's, enjoys very few flashbacks, only one, the one he's currently smirking about, and it is, quite likely, the only one he could enjoy at all, his own deeds such infamy, Ginger blacking out about all of them, both right now and before, noticing zero things, seeing his love muffin of a shark whereas in Tim's eyes what was floating near Ginger last night was just a larvae, Tim's eyes blurry, but more observant, Tim himself, though, deciding not to dwell too much on it.

There're more pressing matters at his pressing hand.

"Relax," he says, smirking at Ginger being cute while hangover.

Cute, blushing and saying _fuck_.

"There were extenuating circumstances," Tim says. "Also, I'm not gonna do it. It's ridiculous. But."

"Uh?" 

"Why don't _you_ do it to me?"

Cute, blushing and licking his lips. 

Asking _now?_

Pouring Tim his quizcocktails.

"Now?" Ginger asks.

Tim snorts, glancing at the floodgate valve of Ginger's cock.

"No," he says. "When you want to."

A cryptic bootlegger he also is.

And he expects another floodgate valve to open after saying that, expects the exchange of beverages to go on, ready to push, to issue real threats, ready to point at the leash - the noose - around both their necks, to commit atrocities and not minor misdemeanors to achieve the desired end, to lie conscious on the floor at Ginger's feet, he expects doing his part, but there is no need for that.

"Okay," Ginger says.

Pale, wrinkled, smiling.

  
Later, in the evening, it is not okay.

They are sober.

They feel alright, feel like themselves again, and Tim is his regular forty something, he's not a baby and not a crusted creature anymore, he is sitting naked in the tub and Ginger's standing next to it, towering over him, and it is not okay, there are so many questions now, so Tim sighs and leans on the side of the tub, lolling his head back, looking up at Ginger.

"Spill it out," he says. "I'm listening."

The flipped image of Mona Lisa he is looking at bites his nervous lips, full of ludicrous concerns.

"Do you..." 

"What?"

"Do you like it?"

Tim shrugs.

"Donno. Haven't tried it yet. I mean, not like this. There was plenty of pissing on each other for cheap and simple fun in my early days."

Ginger smiles weakly. That's also true of his early days.

"So I've no idea," Tim continues. "But it seems like something I might enjoy, so... Why not do it? I am exactly that kind of a person, after all."

Ginger's smile grows more prominent.

"But you won't---" he starts.

"I won't drink the whole gallon you're gonna let out, no worries," Tim interrupts him.

Ginger laughs. 

"It's not a gallon," he says. "It's just because of beer."

" _That_ wasn't beer," Tim cuts him off again, shaking his head and smirking.

Ginger stays silent and Tim observes his uneasy face, the signs of coming to terms with his offer not fully visible on it.

"Jesus," Tim sighs. "Ginger."

Ginger looks at the inverted image Tim is being.

"Not a single thing's implied by this disposition," Tim asserts. "Have no fear. You're still my food."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, and the expression on his face improves, but it is not yet flawless.

"You know that," Tim insists. "You fucking know that all I ever do is hurt you. Not the other way around."

"You..." Ginger says.

"I do," Tim declares. "So no need to freak out here. I will be fine. It's just good old cannibalism and you're the one who's getting eaten."

Then it is not okay, it's perfect. 

The things he had to say for that.

He takes the last glance at Ginger, feeling content with facial results, and shuts his eyes, opening his mouth, relaxed, but anticipating, head resting on the side of the tub.

He has to wait a bit before the first drops fall on his skin.

But then they do and then it's not just drops, it's trickle, soft, warm and wet, like Ginger's kisses, gentle, he lets it run down his lips and on his tongue, there is not much taste to it, but he'd take it over whatever it was that they drank last night, every time, it's not a gallon that Ginger's letting out and it is not a gallon that Tim is drinking, he swallows down some, why wouldn't he, he samples it, he arches off the side of the tub he's leaning on, letting it run further, explore the territory, stain his chest, his stomach, thighs, he ruffs and purrs and moans, deep and low, while it is going on.

He snarls when it is over, opens his eyes and blinks, the drops falling from his eyelashes, looks up, looks at Ginger, at Ginger who is shivering, fractured a little, whose hand is pressed over his mouth, whose eyes are indeed exceptional, enchanting, all tears and blood, at Ginger who is hurt.

"I'm here," Tim says.

indeed, he didn't lie around in his sacred cradle, no, the minute he slipped from his mother's immortal arms he leapt up and set out to find Apollo's herds

He holds Ginger's sweaty hand that Ginger gives him, showing him the motifs on his stupid features, holds it in his own that's covered in piss while he licks the other one, licks his fingers.

"Hm," he hums. "I guess I'm really more of a shit person."

He isn't hard.

"Are you..." Ginger starts.

"It wasn't bad," he says. "We'll do it again."

He isn't hard, but who fucking cares.

"Okay."

"Of course," he says. "But it's gonna be our little secret. Or that fussy lip gloss wearing idiot won't even punch me anymore."

Ginger laughs and shakes his head.

Then Tim tilts his.

"Come here," he says and catches Ginger's cock between his piss covered lips, and Ginger's not hard too, not hard yet, but he is hard in twenty seconds, and Tim's eyes are open, it's not his best performance, he's capable of much more impressive ones, but it is decent and Ginger doesn't fall asleep, he almost falls on Tim lying sprawled there in the tub, arching his neck to take Ginger just a bit deeper and arching his back too, trying to condense his own cock by applying pressure, pushing in his fist and up on Ginger's length, swallowing the whole gallon down, Ginger's soft, warm, wet cock still in his mouth, being savored, while he himself comes some delightful moments later.

  
"Fuck, now it is piss too?" John asks, rolling his indignant eyes. "What's next? Fucking vomit?"

In hindsight, it's funny that he would say that.

But then again, it's Tim who engages in premonition. John's unconcerned about future. It's not his art. John practices completely different skills.

"Well, what did you expect?" Tim smirks, sitting there naked in the tub. "You'd always said we needed supervision. And then you left us alone in the whole _house_. Of course I flew off the handle."

  
He has been hard for the last he didn't count how many times.

He was hard the second time, made efforts to get hard beforehand, stood on his knees naked in the tub, beating off and facing Ginger, and then released himself, grabbed Ginger, executed orders, pulled his toothy trap wide open.

Ginger filled it, first piss, then come.

It was all a matter of repetition after that. Conditioned reflexes.

With some nice changes and additions.

First they were positions. 

That time when he was lying in the tub, stretched, wriggling on his own fingers, and Ginger stood over him, watered him from above and terminated sitting on his face, wriggling on his tongue.

He calls it Niagara Falls. It's very dear to him.

Then - locations. Times of the day and other schedules. Shows of initiative.

Then - Ginger smiling.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" Tim asks eventually.

"No," Ginger says and smiles.

Asks him _do you want to_ in that special tone of voice.

Just like he's been inviting him to witness another instance of secretion.

Well, not exactly like that, there's baggage when it comes to shit and it is heavy, and also he's much more into it, they both are, shit's their whole shtick, and peeing in Tim's sneering mouth... 

That is just their little secret.

A cheap and simple meal for two.

  
He books a bigger table for today.

"It's disgusting," John says. "It's piss. And you aren't even into that."

He sounds positively like a fussy lip gloss wearing idiot.

He's wearing lip gloss.

"I am now," Tim says. "Ginj," Tim says. "Fucking tell him."

"It's..." Ginger says, looking at John, looking shy. These are early days. "It's okay, John. It's just piss. And he likes it."

John studies Ginger for a few seconds.

John's been studying Ginger for a few weeks now.

Tim props his chin on his hands, crossing his arms over the side of the tub, heeding the proceedings.

He isn't supervising.

It's veneration.

"I like it," Ginger adds quietly.

It's beautiful.

A touch of horrible and alien and from outer space, but mostly, mostly tender, gentle, beautiful.

A precious thing.

"Okay," John says, he looked at Ginger and patterns transmutated on his face, black and white and then affection, he smiled too. "Okay."

Tim chuckles.

_Magic._

"Well, then," he says. "Fisrt a demonstration. Then you can have a go too."

And what Tim's doing there is sorcery as well, so first it is a demonstration that they gift to John, they pull up a chair for him and break the bread together, Tim on his knees and naked in the bathtub, both eyes and mouth open, sucking Ginger's cock, cradling it on his tongue like waters of the ocean cradle ships that lost their bearings, the waters that start running down his throat and down his chin and down his chest, his stomach and his thighs not so salty, but not bland, a touch of sweet, of sparkles, of small joys Tim lets out generously and drinks in moderated sips, gurgling happily, and Ginger keeps standing there in front of him, not still, but not collapsing either, just vibrating, just touching the corners of Tim's wide open mouth and his wet lips and his wet chin and both his cheeks and temples, making them wet too, Tim licking his scared, well, not really, his cautious, careful, attentive fingers, his fingers on Tim's smile once they are done.

Then John moves in.

Tim takes a glance at him and puts his hands behind his back, can't help himself, winks at him and lets out a chuckle.

John's _hard._

John has been hard for some time already, has been looking, at Ginger and at the whole act and at Tim too, this isn't the first glance at him that Tim is taking, he's aware, knows what is going on, it's Tim's protruding tongue that's stealing his attention, Tim's bare teeth, Tim's eyes that are rolling up, Tim's head that's lolling back. 

Tim shows no resistance to accommodation.

"Come here," he says and locks his hands behind his back, can't help himself, but can help John, looks up at him and lets out addictive chemicals.

"Closer," he says, shutting his eyes, and John's cock, John's _hard_ cock is soon resting on his face, but Tim himself is not at rest, he sways a bit, as if he is a snake and John's a snake charmer and, maybe, that is also a truth, just not the whole story, Tim sways a bit, John's hard cock travelling across his face and finding residence in Tim's open mouth, John starting to clean up its new dwelling place, giving it a proper wash, and the soap he's using is very much to Tim's taste, there is a touch of bite to it, of zest, a spicy odour, a memorable thing to relish and that's exactly what Tim's doing while it lasts, it doesn't last forever, sadly, but he gets to gulp the picante water down, to awash his face with it and pretty lavishly and what he misses still smears his skin, his shoulders and his back and even his locked hands behind his back, so he doesn't miss a thing, even though he blinks, closes his eyes, he gets to look at what awashes John's face, gets to have John's angry hand pulling at his hair and keeping him in place, keeping him from swaying, reminding him what it was that John wanted, well, first refused, but then developed an itch for, it's Tim wide open trap he overfills with piss, and Tim strains his small prey from oceanic water with his wide open trap, he lets the water flow, but John, John he keeps.

He also keeps John's cock in his mouth once the stream dies down and he keeps his hands behind his back, makes calls with muffled sounds and with his entire form, with steam that evaporates off his sizzling rusty metal shell, he summons Ginger and Ginger makes it to the spot right next to John, John calls him too, says _Ginj_ and pulls him closer with his hand that is not pulling at Tim's hair and kisses him, and while they are kissing, kissing bastards, Tim's trapped between their bodies, their cocks, he squeezes his snoopy snout into the shrinking space that's separating them and licks at everything he can, John's cock and Ginger's cock and Ginger's balls and John's pubic stubble and John's balls and Ginger's pubic hair and the stupid kissing bastards are not the only ones who're generating moans.

And when John's lets go of his hair and grabs his chin and pulls at his lower jaw and hurts his lips and digs his nails in his gums and holds him still Tim also licks John's other angry hand, licks it before John wraps it around Ginger's loyal cock that gets devoutly hard within brief moments, and John then jerks him off and prolongs Tim's existence as a vessel, ensures that he is not only piss, but also a come reservoir, while Ginger simply shakes and shivers and sucks John's face, his lips accustomed to canoodling monsters, and Tim doesn't get to suck his cock, sucks rapid, shallow breaths in instead, he's fucking hyperventilating, he's definitely into this and into piss that still stains his sprinkled casing, he's into being pissed on now that it is _incorporated_ , now that it is among the other liquids, now that it has joined the blood, the sweat, the tears and the smelt that he transformed into and fused plutonium that is spewing energy inside his chest, now that piss is also radioactive, he's into standing on his knees in the bathtub naked, covered in drying discharge, with his hands locked behind his back and his neck arching backwards painfully, his mouth painfully ajar, off the latch and stretched, his tongue hanging out, tingling at the presentiment of Ginger's orgasm, Ginger himself and the fussy lip gloss wearing idiot who's helping him climb to the very peak paying no attention to him, consuming each other's sonants, low, deep and broken, and comsumed by them as if by waters of the ocean.

Tim also doesn't exactly mind when Ginger does indeed culminate in his awaiting mouth.

He doesn't mind that at all.

He snarls. He wants more.

Then, of course, he gets more, because there is always more, because John's not finished, he gets John's cock, John shoves it down his throat, his uncivil hand scalping Tim again, and Tim takes rapid, shallow breaths through his nose, through John's pubic stubble his nose is pressed to, and Tim's head knows no repose, John pushing it like fucking seesaw, and Ginger is not the only one who shakes and shivers, because he still fucking does, Tim retches, getting dizzy, and what comes next almost arrives at those moments, his stomach suffering contractions, his gag reflex as pitiful as always, he manages to think that vomit might be too much too soon, too advanced, but doesn't ponder that for long, seeing that John comes down his throat, pouring his obscene, filthy whining down Ginger's, while Tim leaks tears and saliva and his radioactive fondness, his foamy poison, while Ginger swings in a noose with a fussy, jealous, greedy, grabby, spoiled, with a truly perfect being.

Tim coughs his insides out when they are done.

Tim's covered in fuck knows what when they are done.

Tim's quite a showpiece.

"Fucking butchers," he grits out, falling onto the side of the tub like a sack and observing a three dimensional companion portrait that is about to flop onto the floor. "Smokes are on the stand by the window. The damn cake's is in the fridge. Go. Fuck off."

The masterpiece fucks off, both crumbling bastards leaving him to have a shower and a moment for himself, and he just sits sprawled naked in the tub, licking his own tears off his own fingers and spaced out, waiting for gravity to pull him back to Earth. Then, when it does and his high orbit falters, Tim opens the tap, opens his mouth too, lies down, arching his neck, and gags on the flux of cold water, wriggling between the flesh and bone pliers he's torturing his cock with, convulsing and suffocated, roaring, bellowing and growling or whatever the fuck it is he's doing, beating off about being drowned, his eyes shut tight, nuclear blasts coloring the insides of his eyelids, and it is fine that he is blind and almost deaf and not far from dying, he doesn't need to be alive to know that he has an audience, because John giggles and Ginger smells of smokes and it doesn't matter that he's pretty much just a coming shark corpse right now, the signs of their attendance are all very clear, dear and familiar to him, the place they appear at not only the bathroom, but most of all his nuclear disaster of a heart.

Also, the bastards pull his pure post-orgasmic bliss of a cadaver out of his coffin of a tub once he becomes a pure post-orgasmic bliss of a cadaver floating in the cold water in his coffin of a tub.


	10. Moving forward

  
"Morning," Tim says, and it is morning, and they are in bed, and he's been looking at him, trying to control his breath and failing like a loser, snorting out balls of gas like a steam engine train that's going off the rails, his neck numb, because he also was asleep before he started this, because he's been holding his position, motionless apart from his helping hand, silent, hiding, a predator engaged in secretive masturbation, and _his_ neck, as always, has some bullshit fastened around it, a thin black piece of leather that simply dictates pulling at it, slightly, with no criminal intent, just teasing, because if that garment isn't there to be a sultry pillar of flirting at the owner then Tim knows not a thing about him and that's not true, he knows every curvature and every straight line he's studying right now, the dry and brittle hair ends touching the spot under the ear he's kissed for as many times as there're hairs on the owner's dumb head and in his damn beard he can't look at, but still does, his fist on his cock clenching when he figures the features that are hidden under it, his eyes gliding up, to the lips, the filthy lips that used to follow the prying fingers poking into the spots on his own body he'd never thought were there to begin with, the filthy lips that now taunt him and insult him, not that he's upset about it because it is still the same, obsessive tickling and pinching, _probing_ , and obsessive hate, it is the same, it's just the appetite is bigger, it is this thought that makes him promptly put a hand over his own mouth, muffling the snarl, charges going through his cock he's lazily trying to unscrew, way too immersed in visual delight to gain any speed worth mentioning, and then there is eyeshadow on the sleeping beauty's eyelids, he is as disinclined to wash his pretty face as Tim is to brush his dirty teeth, the eyelashes that whisper at him, demanding that he move, bend, drag his tongue over them, the very tip, alluring tempters covered in mascara, and if he looks down, which he does, if he looks down, nose, lips, chin, lips again, the piece of leather, smooth shoulder joint creating ghost sensation in his palm wrapped tight around his shaft, then shoulderblade winking at him thanks to geometry, then spinal column curving, obscured from him but perfectly reconstructed in his mind because this back is like his main field of worship, then the blanket with its twisted paw, the fucking blanket that is a worse offender than the beard he genuinely loathes, and then parts of the butt which he can see and now stares at, going _fuck, fuck, fuck_ inside his head, the tingling in his hand that longs to leave an imprint on the cheeks transferred to his cock that will be denied, because it is his tongue that needs to be put in his hole that he also knows as intimately as his own strained fingers, to his cock that nevertheless might be requested and subsequently given, because all his shaking, sweaty, horny body parts can be used for service, can be crushed by these heavenly cruel, divine, celestial hands, and then one of those hands twitches, the picture tilting, shifting, turning, John whining and opening his eyes and wrinkling his nose at him.

"Morning," Tim says then, raspy, breathless, rabid like a starving shark.

John squints at him, lips quirking in annoyance and disgust, and scoffs at him, trying to slap his shaking, sweaty, horny body with his drousy hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks, and what Tim's doing is jerking off and drooling at him while he sleeps and also he isn't stopping now when he's awake. "I'm sleeping."

There is nothing proper about what you are doing, soldier, but do try

"You aren't anymore," Tim says, baring his teeth, eyes hungrily catching every exposed centimeter of John's skin, the blanket sliding off him as he tries to kick him. "Quit whining. I haven't even touched you."

"Yeah, you've touched yourself," John says, eyes narrowed at Tim still doing that and quite enthusiastically, emotional engagement adding to the pleasure. "God, you're like a fucking dog. I sucked you like six hours ago."

Tim chuckles, a quick flash of that magnificent event flying through his mind.

"I am indeed an animal," Tim says, now remembering the blowjob he paid John back with five hours fourty five minutes earlier. "But more like a harem one. I didn't get myself two idiots for the price of one for no reason, John." His breath hitches, his accomodating fucking memory supplying him with a cock sucking episode he had with Ginger seven agonizingly long days ago as a farewell. "So now that one of them is bonding with his tribe, I simply need to fuck another one twice as often. I suffer, John. I feel like a part of me is missing when Ginger's gone."

John groans, rolling his eyes at him.

"He's gonna be here this afternoon. You'll get his cock you're obsessed with then," he says and pushes him. "So fuck off from me. I'm sleeping."

"You're gorgeous," Tim objects, hastily eyeing John's wriggling angry body before his crippled old one ends up on the floor. "You're the most splendid, seductive, sexy cranky morning bastard I've ever seen. You are a masterpiece."

"God, fuck off," John says, shielding himself with pillows and blankets Tim should fucking burn in his pagan temple room as soon as possible. "You and your words. I fucking know you're just kissing my butt here, Tim."

"Well, is it working?" Tim inquires, stubbornly creeping closer to him with his leaking, squashed, stiff cock, discarding the wooly obstructions. "Can I _actually_ kiss your butt?"

John hisses, elbowing him and attempting to dive into the mattress face forward, but eventually surrendering.

"Okay, alright," he says, relaxing grumpily. "Do whatever you fucking want. Just don't expect anything from me."

  
_I so don't_ , Tim thinks, shoving his snout into the curve between his coy leather wearing neck and his smooth capricious shoulder joint, and what comes next is not in the least expected, it's all a miracle that occurs once in a fourteen billion agonizing years, it's all out of the blue and a surprise and Tim had absolutely no idea it would happen, no idea whatsoever, and what comes next is greedy, frenzied kisses he covers John's whole beautiful sullen back in, salivating, lapping at him, trap wide open, even biting slightly when he is sure his jaws haven't yet forgotten what precision is, what comes next is his enraptured hands that grab at everything his eyes've explored and revere it, every centimeter of John's skin and all that lies beneath it, his shoulderblades and spinal column and gradually melting muscles and his elbows that will one day break his nose, what comes next is John's obscene response Tim hasn't anticipated, not at all, hasn't even thought of, has not considered, what comes next is John turning into salacious, shaking, sweaty, horny liquid underneath him, wriggling, gasping, moaning, loud, low, deep, demanding, what comes next is actual butt kissing followed by some butt smacking and a lot of really passionate ass licking, Tim burying his face between John's cheeks, John putting his ass up in the air, meeting his every move and hurrying him up, fucking himself on Tim's tongue he sticks so far out it threatens to get detached, what comes next is John saying _Tim, come on_ , and _come on already_ , when Tim won't stop with his hole sucking exercise that is his main occupation and fuck jerking guitars for money, he is a rimming charity, what comes next is John saying _fuck me_ and _do it harder_ , when Tim finally withdraws and runs around the room in circles trying to locate the lube and pours a whole gallon of it on John's stretched, impatient, avaricious whining hole and pushes into him and slaps him as he enters and works his hips to the very tune that's playing in John's head, what comes next is Tim yanking John's hands back and holding them, pressing on his nape, shoving him into the mattress he wanted to hug so much not so long ago, bent over him as a hammer that is a question mark, what comes next is Tim fucking John exactly the way John wants him to until he comes, clenching around him and shuddering, getting his hands that are twitching under Tim's on all the pleasures in the world, on all the pleasures that are his, and who comes next is Tim, he comes furiously beating off and staring at the lewd landslide of John's ruined body, at his wet hair sticking to his neck the piece of leather has slipped off, no longer fastened, at his beautiful naked spine covered in impressions of his own hands and teeth, at his pornographically red butt that would win rounds and rounds of applause were John a star of a less string molesting kind, at his thoroughly fucked hole John told him to vacate immediately once its voracious appetite has been satisfied, at this whole gorgeous masterpiece of corruption and debauchery, Tim comes, snarling out balls of love, affection and utter veneration, and none of it has been forseen, this perfect creature is a perfect stranger, all his reactions are a mystery to him, he hasn't spent years researching him and spoiling him, he knows next to nothing about him, just as little as he knew back when he saw that sweet, ridiculous defiance aimed at him for the first time in his life, he's not a calculating evil mastermind who rules their local hell pit, he's just a dog that has been toying with its morning wood, he had no convoluted plans, he simply decided to jerk off, admiring his naked, pretty, sleepy virtuoso and that's all, he didn't expect a single thing he's gotten, it is a gift from ancient gods he does not believe in, it is just a lucky accident, nothing but it, it surely is.

  
And when Tim sees John jumping and running to the door, when he sees him grabbing Ginger's exhausted body parts without letting him put his bags down, when he sees him kissing Ginger's pale, wrinkled face and rolls his eyes, counting the seconds they spend smooching out loud, when Tim hears John giggling and Ginger grunting, the idiots engaged in a mock fight that starts with tickling and terminates in more face sucking he diligently observes while smoking, when Tim smirks quietly and shakes his head, John trying on a long thin string of sparkly feathers Ginger's bought for him and smiling coquettishly at him even though there is no need to make advances with him, he's already totally in love despite looking like the only thing he wants to is to be comatose forever, when Tim's smirk becomes his permanent expression, John clapping his hands and picking up his guitar and playing all of his new tunes for Ginger without listening to a single answer to the questions he himself has asked, but stealing all the glances Ginger tries to offer Tim, snatching not only all of him, but also all of his attention, when Tim's smirk can no longer be supported by his mouth because his mouth's busy, John rocking his hips on top of Ginger, naked apart from his brand new feathers and hot from head to toe, Ginger half dead and moaning pathetically underneath him, overjoyed tentacles holding John's marble statue of a body Tim turned into a pile of panting rocks just six hours fifteen minutes ago, Tim bent once more, trap first wide open and then stuffed, monstrous, but amenable around John's cock, when Tim sees nothing, face pressed to John's ideal stomach, choking, gagging and swallowing his junk, convulsing as he comes down his throat and clenching around Ginger who tags along in mere seconds, no doubt dumbstruck by the image of John fucking himself on him and throwing his head back, motions fluid, an otherworldly creature made of lewd lava and unconscious urges, the image Tim vividly imagines when hearing Ginger whispering _God, John_ , when Tim again regains his vision and, only partly, his breath, when he lies there half next to half on top of Ginger, jerking his hips like a horny dog, his cock pressed to Ginger's thigh and sliding, when Ginger frees one of his tender loving tentacles from John's avid, but gentle hold, and gives it to him, when Tim comes, fucking Ginger's remains without even trying to find his holes, feeling his stupid scared fingers brushing against his palm and staring at John seizing him without any fight on Ginger's part, at John enjoying his possessions, at his content blissed out face and his dumb head resting on Ginger's shoulder, at his celestial hands claiming Ginger's skin, at every centimeter of his body, indulged and gratified, at his very essence spread out over Ginger and the mattress covered in their sweat beneath them, at this gorgeous masterpiece and at the absurd specimen of marine life he's pulling ever closer, when Tim wipes the come produced by all three of them with blankets that later almost trigger the fire alarm he has completely forgotten of and flicks the lighter, starting a much lesser arson for himself and for the flattened squid while John enjoys both Ginger's barely moving fingers in his hair and a slice of pumpkin pie he's chewing on in earnest, when all three of them are just a pile of limbs that is about to fall asleep it still feels like a dream, impossible, wondrous, unattainable, it's nothing he has ever thought would happen, it is a personalized gift from ancient gods he regularly makes sacrifices to even though he does not believe in them, even though it is mad, it is a gift from ancient gods to their sinful chosen shark.

  
"Fuck off," Tim says in the evening, and it is evening, and he is standing near a wall, his back to him, and his eyes are shut tight and wet, but it doesn't change a single thing, the darkness of his closed eyelides can't be compared to what is coiling in his chest, what's coiling there just wouldn't leave, even though the host's whole body hurts, inside and his metal surface too, the belt's been landing on him for the last agonizginly slow minutes he hasn't counted, burning his skin, crushing his back and then, when that was insufficient, his open palms, his hands he put behind his back that's turned to him, that he is beating, his angry crying muffled by Tim's own screaming that has recently subsided because his throat simply couldn't produce it anymore, it's so sore that what Tim says can't be comprehended, it's fucking gibberish to John, so John takes a step forward and one more, attempting to put his hand on Tim's shaking shoulder, John asks him if he's okay.

So Tim repeats himself.

"Fuck off from here," he says, tense, cold and rotting. "Just go. Fucking go." He swallows hard. "And don't let him come in here. Go."

So in the evening Tim tells John to fuck off and stands there near the wall, pure pain in barely human form, stands there for hours until the night falls in the dark room John leaves him in alone.

  
And, granted, it is the evening of a completely different day, there're months and months of other days between that morning and that afternoon and this goddamn evening, they aren't countless, but there're many, and many of them are like a dream, impossible and wondrous, yet it means nothing, because nothing, nothing helps him anymore.

  
Nothing helps.


	11. Our whole shtick

"Can we..." Ginger whispers in his ear, his quiet voice gently dissipating the bizarre visions in Tim's lethargic mind.

"What?" Tim says, turning his sleepy head to observe the idle black holes on Ginger's pretty drowsy face.

"Can we do it with John too?" Ginger asks, and Tim feels much less sluggish than he did just a second earlier.

  
They sit on the couch for close to two hours after Tim comes home, first chewing on Ginger's culinary accident Tim keeps berating with his mouth full, demanding he finally take classes and learn how to properly hold a knife, Ginger laughing softly and playing along, admitting he is a failure, then they watch TV or rather constantly switch channels until they get immersed in a documentary about the sea creatures populating the Pacific ocean, Tim making lewd comments about the sexual life of the various fish species appearing on the screen, swimming between the stony corals and sea anemones, all bright colors and fleeting life spans, Ginger again chuckling and playing along, calling him a pervert, both of them smoking through a countless number of cigarettes.

Tomaten, Zwiebeln, Zunge, Schinken, Pilze, Madeira, Paprika, Butter und ein bisschen Scheiße, mein lieber Kumpel, ein bisschen Scheiße, die du essen wirst

When the programme's over, Tim decides to harrass another marine animal and switches his coarse attention to the cephalopode sitting right next to him with no pants on, the blanket wrapped around his body as his mantle, the squid himself signalling his approval through a change in coloration, ejecting the clouds of phonemes instead of ink, the predator that pulls his mantle off him not distracted by that in the slightest.

The filthy sequence they eventually get trapped in is started by Tim, his heartless fingers ending up in Ginger's ass, Tim stretching him, using his own saliva, both of them too engaged in their chase to go look for lube, both of them agreeing they are no strangers to potential pain, be it causing it or being on the receiving end of it, Tim taking matters in his own hands, citing his superior experience, Ginger just moaning compliantly and being pretty proficient in that, spreading his legs and then wrapping them around Tim's waist, both of them gripping various parts of the couch, Tim balancing awkwardly on top of Ginger, suffering a lack of limbs, Ginger arching, Tim thrusting inside him and shoving his fingers that've just left the area he's currently entering in Ginger's mouth, Ginger welcoming both intrusions, sucking Tim's fingers with such exaltation on his face as if there is nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing and maybe there actually isn't, staring at Tim with opaque, black eyes, the noise that escapes his soft warm lips once Tim removes his heartless digits sounding to Tim's fine-tuned ears like incoherent begging.

"What?" he chuckles, brushing his thumb over Ginger's lower lip. "Can't fight your shit-eating cravings?"

Ginger demonstrates his bioluminescence abilities anew, briefly averting his gaze, Tim not deterred by that defensive tactic either, pulling out and changing his unsteady position, taking an even more weird one, presenting Ginger with his cock, Ginger shuddering and gasping.

"Do it," Tim says, and Ginger puts his mouth on him after a short period of hesitation, displaying the same adoring attitude towards Tim's cock he exhibited towards Tim's fingers, Tim pulling at his hair and staring at him, hungry, making lewd comments about his fecal inclination, pulling out abruptly and resuming his previous thrusting position, pushing inside Ginger's hole once again, informing Ginger he just needs to collect more edible material, assuring him he's going to be stuffing his soiled mouth with his favorite excrements in no time, Ginger choking on his breath and providing Tim's salivating trap with his pathetic palatable reactions, Tim delivering his promise after some seconds, abandoning Ginger's hole in favour of his mouth, repeating these steps, over and over, switching his wobbly positions just like he's been switching channels, facilitating the bacterial Migration Period and being an invading barbarian himself, but one who's been invited to perform the slaughter, devastating Ginger just like nomadic people did the Empire, Ginger welcoming this havoc and moaning in an utterly illegal fashion both around Tim's cock and because of Tim's well-balanced speech, Tim transferring his filth into his oral cavity and calling him filth while gathering it, fucking his hole and patting his cheek, consoling him with his endless supply of affectionate adjectives added to unfair comparisons, his wretched passion skillfully expressed in a verbal form, Ginger accepting his fucked up compliments, a wrongful smile on his lips, illicit tears on his face, his criminally happy eyes never leaving Tim's fucking snout, Tim designating him his excrement of choice, his favorite crap reservoir, his dearest drainage pipe, his most cherished shit aqueduct, pouring the terrible words of love down his gulping throat, Ginger swallowing them along with dirt and with forbidden dedication, Tim shutting up and fucking Ginger's gulping throat he's just stuffed full of radioactive fondness, satisfying both his and his own troubling shit related cravings, their reckless bacteria transferring acrobatics giving them a helping hand, Ginger's scared trembling hand touching Tim's, it's owner requesting his attention.

"What?" Tim asks, pulling out of Ginger's mouth and cupping his blushing face. "What do you want?" 

He gets an answer right away, Ginger telling him he wants to come, Tim hurrying towards this inevitable future and hastily making spatial changes, digging his fingers into Ginger's hole, then pushing inside him and shoving his fingers in his mouth, the hesitation period now non-existent, the sequence about to terminate, Tim about to fucking flop, Ginger shaking like a leaf and coming in less than twenty seconds, licking at his soiled digits and clenching around his wandering cock, generating incoherent begging even after orgasm, his gooey helpless tentacles grabbing Tim's exhausted body parts, Tim steering them into the right direction, being fluent in the language of the sea, embarking on the last journey of that evening, pulling out of Ginger's pulsing hole and sticking his soiled cock in Ginger's panting mouth, shaking like a bursting warhead and coming in a fleeting time period, holding Ginger's unlawful act of a face in his fiery hands.

"Fucking hell," Tim manages, freeing Ginger's overfed oral cavity of his cock, Ginger responding with a sob and a succession of violent aftershocks, Tim flopping on the floor and pacifying his hungry trap, his mouth turning into a vagabond as well, Tim's tongue first in Ginger's boiling hole, Tim joining him in excrement consumption, then on his spent cock, Tim swallowing his come, then on his feverish overwhelmed face, Tim adding salt to his meal, then on his soft, warm, delicious, twitching lips, Tim soothing him, his semiconscious essence Tim's dessert.

"You biggest motherfucking shit eater in history," Tim says, pulling away only to gorge on Ginger's responsive broken laughter a second later.

They sit on the couch after that, hugging and smoking a number of cigarettes neither of them is interested in counting, Ginger shivering and sighing from time to time, Tim combing his hair with his fingers, until both of them start descending into the soporific ocean, Tim dragging Ginger into the bedroom and dragging his feet, collapsing on the mattress with resolution, Ginger's plasma covering his body.

That's when his intention to remain comatose for the next fourteen billion years is altered by Ginger's whispery enquiry.

"Can we do it with John too?" Ginger asks, and Tim goes thermonuclear, turning into pure volatile death.

"Getting greedy?" Tim asks, and Ginger goes red, turning into pitiful ashes.

They exchange some swear words. Some sighs. Some smiles.

The pause that happens next they enjoy together.

"Look, I don't know if I will be able to sell this to him without losing my mind," Tim says, his hand in Ginger's hair again. "I am not sure I will survive that much whining."

Ginger laughs nervously.

"But okay, I'll try," Tim continues, smiling at him. "We'll have to make changes to the process too. This fucking gymnastics today almost gave me a heart attack, you know."

Ginger closes his stupid self-conscious eyes.

"I anticipate a massive routing problem if both of us are going to do all that jumping," Tim goes on, quirking his shameless lips. "You want both of us at the same time, right?"

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out, gulping. "Fuck. Maybe..."

"What?" Tim urges him, a dumb reckless fish he is.

"Maybe you can do it with dildos," Ginger grants him his reply, the roaring flames turning Tim into a charcoal steak that very second.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tim manages once the fumes dissipate just like his dreams did a few minutes ago. "You sick motherfucker. Okay. We're doing this. I am your willing trickster, Ginger. I'm gonna transgress all boundaries for you. We're so doing this."

  
"Wanna do it on your own too?" Tim asks, closing the door after John and turning to face Ginger.

  
He personates Hermes for John, being honest, playing fair and paying for what he's taken to achieve the desired end, surviving the whining and staying relatively sane, and they are so doing it just like he inferred.

They do it on the couch and with dildos.

They do it in the house on fire.

They sit on the couch, Ginger between them, full of fear, John biting his lips, full of doubt, Tim igniting the room, full of courage and defiance, starting the sequence yet again, his daring fingers stretching Ginger's hole, Ginger trembling legs spread wide, resting on both his and John's thighs, Ginger's head finding support on John's shoulder, John providing the tranquilizing narrative in a breaking voice. 

They sit on the couch, and Tim pushes the glass dildo inside Ginger and pulls it out once Ginger hums his begging noises at him, John filling his hole with the space cock, Ginger lifting his head off John's shoulder and turning his blushing face to Tim.

"Come on," Tim says, and Ginger opens his mouth, sucking the first portion of dirt off the dildo Tim stuffs it with, and his eyes go black.

"Come on," Tim says again, and John takes part in the dirty arson, placing the space cock between Ginger's lips, Ginger's burning face now turned to him, Tim taking care of fucking his hole and admiring cracks on John's visage, teeth overtaking his own snout.

"Relax," Tim says, and Ginger complies, accepting the soiled dildo Tim holds in his helping hand in his mouth with a moan, and his eyes go wet.

"Relax," Tim says again, and John nods, swallowing hard, while Ginger swallows his filth he licks off the space cock John's fingers are wrapped around, squirming on the shit vehicle Tim's operating inside his hole, melting between them, melting on the couch in the middle of the burning room.

"Just like that," Tim says, and Ginger sobs, fondling the glass with his tongue, rocking his hips in a faltering rhythm, John fucking him in a steady one, Tim's helping hand also in motion next to Ginger's panting mouth, Ginger's eyes shut tight.

"Just like that," Tim says again, and John inhales sharply, biting his lips, Ginger's lips around the cock from outer space John's pulled out of his ass, John's fingers that are holding it white and sweaty, John staring at Ginger, his eyes open wide and fixed on Ginger's blazing face, his own face once more a magical mirror for Tim, Tim entranced by this obsidian abyss, Tim's hand moving between Ginger's trembling legs, knowing the way inside his body on its own.

"Shut up," Tim says, and Ginger's soft smile reaches his eyes he is staring at Tim with, his mouth on the glass dildo again, his moans reverberating on its surface, Tim tasting his blood on his tongue he keeps running over his teeth, observing Ginger showcasing his fecal inclination, aroused, embarrassed, fractured and impossibly close to him, scared of what he wished for and getting it, John whining through gritted teeth, getting filled to capacity and beyond and filling Ginger's hole with the space cock, sanity gradually leaving all three of them. "I fucking know you do."

"Tell him," Tim says, and tears run down John's beautiful shattered face Ginger is searching for what he wished for, John fucking his flushed one with the soiled space cock, crimson in full bloom on Ginger's skin, Tim treating his pulsing hole to the glass dildo and treating himself to raw flesh, crimson in full bloom in the room around them, blood Tim is letting out of his mouth doing nothing to extinguish the fire roaring in their ears, both entities being his own radioactive creation entirely, driving the crying idiots just as mad as he himself is. "Let him fucking know you do too."

John tells Ginger he loves him, John tells him he wants him, John adds _fuck_ and _so much_ , John hurries his words out, his voice shaking, his hand he discards the space cock with and slaps Tim's mobile hand away shaking as well, spatial changes occuring hastily thanks to Tim's accommodating dildo removing efforts, Ginger wrapping his legs around John's crumbling marble frame, John thrusting into him, collapsing on top of him, covering his filthy lips with his whispering ones, crimson giving way to white, Tim's deadly glowing cocktail turning sweet, Tim blinded by the sight, a crying idiot himself, two other sobbing morons transforming into orgasming ones, Ginger arching under John, moaning into his mouth, Tim recognizing the begging quality of his voice and wondering if John's taken enough sea language lessons yet and making no sounds himself, his clattering shark teeth blocking all his attempts to produce the units of fucking speech, Ginger's trembling tentacles drumming miserable rhythms on John's skin, Ginger's plasma awkwardly propelling him, John taking hints and reading signs and getting excellent marks, a goddamn prodigy he is, standing up and letting Ginger welcome his cock in his mouth, his hand pressed tight over his own, his final whine delectable and muffled, Ginger sucking his filth off him and sucking him off to completion, the criminally happy black holes of his eyes never leaving John's devastated obsidian scree of a face, John caught in their gravitational pull, the idiots just two magical mirrors reflecting each other.

When that stage of the shit induced conflagration is over and broken bodies are once more capable of movement and love confessions are yet again floating in the air, the post-coital dumbasses turn their attention to Tim, and he does some coming of his own, his hungry trap full of cock, Tim swallowing the last portion of Ginger's shit down, licking it off the glass dildo with a massive sneer, squeezing his cock in his hand with considerable force, terminating the sequence he started with a deep, low, loud snarl.

All three of them end up in bed shortly after that, dragging their barely present bodies into the bedroom and dragging their feet, falling down on the mattress and sleeping in a crappy pile of severed limbs and lost heads lacking any fucking sense.

"Wanna do it on your own?" Tim asks Ginger in the morning once John leaves their burnt-out house, and he knows the answer before Ginger gives him one.

  
"What?" Ginger asks in the evening once both several days and their shared seizure pass, and Tim thinks he also must be aware of his imminent reply.

"I am so doing this as well," Tim gives it to him nonetheless.

  
Several days pass after John leaves the burnt-out house with a sexy bathroom, and they enter their pretty debauched bedroom, Tim exiting the sexy bathroom, having finished washing the sweat off his skin, the sweat that covered his body while he was running outside, Ginger getting off the couch, having finished reading the book he's been immersed in these past several days, and Ginger takes off his boxers and his wifebeater and lies on the bed naked in front of Tim, and Tim pulls out a cigarette and lights it up and sits on the bed next to Ginger, and the space cock rests on the mattress between them, and Tim thinks he'd prefer to have the tentacle dildo for this exercise, Ginger's own severed body part being more suitable for the self-service he's about to engage in, but sadly that delightful thing is still chilling out at John's musical instruments storage of a place. 

Tim transfers the cigarette from his own anticipating mouth into Ginger's fortasting one and lets him smoke, the fumes he inhales lessening his ever-present fear, Tim's fingers finding their way into his ever scared hole, Tim preparing it to be fucked while Ginger fucks up his lungs, spreading his slightly trembling legs for Tim, Tim spreading his fingers inside him, stretching him and pushing the cock from the outer space in, taking the cigarette butt from Ginger and taking his rightful place in the observation post on the edge of the bed, occupying his hands with another cigarette, Ginger starting to enjoy Tim's extensive preparations, fucking himself with the dildo and shivering, his eyes travelling from Tim's expectant snout to an inner landscape of his own desires, hesitation marking his face with red spots blossoming on his cheeks.

Laissez les bons temps rouler

"Ginj, come on," Tim says, demonstrating him his teeth bared in his tender predatorial smile, eager to see different flowers and some other, even more entertaining things as well. "Show yourself to me."

Ginger swallows hard, humming noises at him, Tim blowing the smoke out at him, and nods.

"Okay," he says, slowly pulling out the space cock. "Fuck, okay."

The vacuum dwelling thing holds stationary orbit right next to Ginger's nervous lips for a few seconds while Ginger holds it in his anxious hand, Tim's facial expression another constant in their universe, Tim's facial expression apparently enough of an encouragement too, Ginger taking the dildo in his mouth, Tim taking a deep drag, a helpless moan escaping Ginger's nervous lips, smoke evaporating off Tim's quirking ones, Tim an attentive beholder of entertaining things that've started happening, Ginger a wary percipient of Tim's visual pleasures.

The vacuum dwelling thing flies back into Ginger's hole once Ginger coats it in his saliva, Ginger moving his hand and coating it in some other, more disreputable substances, Tim moving his, the fumes he inhales gliding over the blood gradually filling his mouth.

"Let me look at you, Ginger," he says, exhaling them, urging Ginger to busy his mouth too, Ginger shivering and freeing his hole of the space cock again, placing his lips on it once more, sound waves escaping them and filth staying inside, the hot dense mass in Tim's chest desperately trying to find the way out.

"Fuck your delicious dirty hole," Tim offers a few seconds later, providing encouragement, Ginger already doing just that, Tim lost between two points he's so intently looking at, Ginger lost in his fucking woods.

"Fuck your beautiful shit eating mouth," Tim insists after another brief time period, Ginger ispired to take exactly that action by his carefully chosen words, Tim feeling his fucked up lungs collapsing at the sight, Ginger blushing furiously, being that lung collapsing sight, being a fucking sight to behold.

"God, Tim," Ginger says, his soiled mouth unobstructed again. "You---"

"I want you," Tim says, his hungry mouth providing the most honest testimony, his hungry mouth being that testimony itself. "I want more of you. I want all of you."

"God, Tim," Ginger says, his hand stuttering on the dildo he pushes in and out of his hole. "I---"

"You love me," Tim says, his eyes on Ginger's hole he fucks in front of him, the space cock in his stuttering hand. "You'll give me more. You'll give yourself to me. You'll give me everything you have."

"Tim," Ginger says, Tim's name signifying his agreement better than any other words, Tim's nuclear bomb of a heart both undergoing and executing an attack, Ginger performing his own number, his stuttering hand now fucking his moaning face with the same vacuum dwelling object that's just been moving inside his hole.

"Perfect," Tim says, his statement never reaching his own ears, his radioactive pulse loud and leaving him deaf, his statement reaching the intended target, Tim staring at the verbal warheads plowing the ground, leaving it panting and shuddering and sweaty and ruined in front of him, the space cock departing from Ginger's mouth full of cravings for shit and kisses and ending up in his hole again, Tim switching his attention to that area as well.

"You're fucking perfect, Ginger," Tim opens his mouth full of cravings for raw flesh and tobacco, letting out another string of weapons he's been steadily bombarding Ginger with.

"Tim," Ginger responds, Tim's name signifying his call for help Tim willingly provides, pulled towards him by the binding nuclear force, covering his trembling tentacle with his determined hand, bringing in reinforcements, amplifying the amplitude of space cock frictions happening inside Ginger's hole, Ginger removing his plasma sprouts entirely after several seconds, spreading himself on the cutting board and letting Tim peform his surgery.

"Want it?" Tim asks, removing the dildo from his hole and presenting it to Ginger. "Wanna suck your filth for me?"

"Yes," Ginger says, pushing his wet hair away from his face, unobstructing the view. "Fuck, Tim. Yes."

"Do it then," Tim says, pushing the space cock into his mouth, eagerly leaving his observation post to take part in the ongoing action, Ginger reacting with a sobbing moan, his breath laboured, his state pathetic, Tim's breath radioactive, Tim's state that of continuous decay.

"Give me your hole," Tim says, freeing his oral cavity of the foreign object and stuffing his other opening with it, Ginger holding himself open for this attack, catastrophes unfolding in Tim's chest, hazardous debris finding their freedom. "Feeling happy yet? You shaking shitgoo."

"Yes," Ginger says, nodding, his wet hair falling on his face again. "God, Tim. Yes."

"Good," Tim smirks, enthusiastically attending to his hole. "I am happy too. I am happy to oblige. Just tell me when you want your mess again."

"I..." Ginger breathes out, the wave of warmth reaching Tim's smirking snout. "I want it... I want it now."

"Fuck," Tim says, his smirk growing infinitely larger, enjoying milder climate. "You waste recycler. Here. Eat your shit."

He makes a swift spatial change, and Ginger eats his shit just like Tim told him to, his beaming eyes knowing their way, his beaming eyes finding testimonies on Tim's smirking snout full of teeth, his own blood covering these sharp scary structures Tim shows openly and without any hesitation.

"You fucking like it more than this, don't you?" Tim inquires, his beaming chest propelling him to move, the space cock entering Ginger's hole on display. "You fucking love eating your crap."

"I do," Ginger says, displaying his fecal inclination too. "Fuck, Tim. I do."

"Just wait a bit," Tim says, carrying out thrusting actions between Ginger's trembling legs thrown wide. "Just let me finish cooking it and then I'll give you some."

The space cock repeats its trip some seconds later, and Ginger gets what he's requested, consuming his fresh filthy meal and whimpering around the dildo it is resting on, Tim's mouth hungry both for that dish and for the tears that run down Ginger's face, Tim himself a gourmet fucking chef on a strict diet.

"You'd fucking love to come like that, wouldn't you?" Tim asks after that, his hungry mouth opting for the next best option, seeking blood, his hand reaching its destination, the space cock propellant in Ginger's hole once more. "Come while choking on your dirt. Come because of that."

"I would," Ginger offers his reply again, his bleeding essence pouring down Tim's blissful throat, Ginger's throat twitching and collapsing with the flow of air that creates the phonemes he exhales. "God, Tim. I would."

Tim feels he's frenzied. 

Tim thinks his nuclear disaster of a heart is giving up on him. 

Tim thinks he's dead within a fraction of a second. 

Tim purrs.

"Come for me," Tim says, the cock from outer space effecting its deadly jumping once again, Tim shoving it in Ginger's shaking hand and his heartless fingers in his accommodating hole. "Fuck your filthy face and come for me. Come like a shit eating squid you are."

Tim creates their future with his words.

Tim sees Ginger's mouth getting full of soiled cock. 

Tim mirrors his behavior. 

Tim digs his fingers into Ginger's dirty hole and takes him in his mouth. 

Tim looks up. 

Tim runs his tongue over Ginger's cock while Ginger flaps his over the shitty dildo. 

Ginger fucks his own face. It cracks and Tim knows the pattern. Tim fucks Ginger's hole. It clenches and Tim knows the reason. Ginger stares down at him. A fraction of a second passes, and he comes, he comes, and Tim feels it, tastes it, sees it, Tim gets all of it, his fingers moving in Ginger's messy heat, his mouth full of his delicious come, his eyes fixed on Ginger's broken, shattered, shit eating face, Ginger's fingers white and sweaty on the dildo, his mouth stuffed with it, his eyes wide open, frightened, blissful, black and wet, his body twisting as if shocked, his hips confused, his legs shaking, his muscles strained, his ragged breath loud in Tim's ears, the elementary particles he turns into in front of Tim the only thing that matters in the vastness of the universe incinerated by the blast that's tearing Tim apart.

S2, S3, S4, rest and digest

"Fuck, Ginger," he says and shuts himself up that very moment, his fingers leaving Ginger's messy clenching heat and ending up in his own starving mouth, Tim sucking on them and being frenzied, his vacant hand trying to liberate his desolate ascetic cock and fumbling, Tim's navigational systems malfunctioning, his brain fried by the sight he's just beheld, Ginger giving him a helping loving tentacle and fumbling too, his nervous system still disintegrated, Tim crushing down on him once his pants are finally off, thrusting carelessly into him, verbal exhaust leaving his mouth, verbal exhaust landing on Ginger's feverish, frightened, blissful, salty face Tim holds in his fiery hands, Ginger wrapping his excessive limbs around him, all fourteen billion of them, all tender and vibrating and accepting, Tim's boiling come filling his tight pulsating compliant hole, Tim's boiling mind filling with new amazing memories and new brilliant ideas, Tim's boiling chest tight, pulsating and out of control, Tim's boiling elementary particles he breaks into drowning in Ginger's boiling plasma, Tim falling down on him once his onslaught is over, the shared seizure striking both of them, impairing their speech and suffocating them, Ginger sucking in deep breaths and letting out small delicate sobs, Tim listening to him and knowing what he means, the language of the sea being his native one.

  
"What?" Ginger asks, when Tim finds it in himself to lift his warhead of a body that's been reduced to atoms and stares at his incandescent face that currently exists in the same fragmented state and finds all that he wants on it without even searching it.

"I am so doing this as well," Tim says, and Ginger laughs, the soundwave creating structures in their forms that've undergone both nuclear fission and fusion.


	12. Service à la française

  
The thick white fumes of the Zwanenburgwal wind along the path, the channel constricted by the lead walls, and Tim slowly floats further, a weak, but persistent current dragging him into the distant sea, and the water's hot. Of course, the water's always hot at dawn, but it has never been so hot, it is as hot as the cup of hot chocolate he's having, the cup he stares into, remnants of the drink forming into symbols, letters, Tim trying to read, to figure out what language it is, it looks like fucking Flemish, maybe Frisian, but _faire foutre_ seems French, and well, it might be a European language, but he still doesn't speak Spanish, does he, and then he shivers, his spinal column attempting to vacate his body, even though he really needs it, and then he wakes up, his face a pool of wrinkled, drooling skin on the wet pillow.

The steaming squid heated to scorching temperatures is exhaling soft quiet snores right next to him, and Tim opens his left eye, ungluing his heavy lids, and gets blinded, first by Ginger's white throat that is producing noises mere centimeters from his snout, then by John's white face, John's marble with a craquelure of opaque, dark gorges, and John is watching Ginger.

John's admiring the sight Tim himself is very fond of.

"Hey, sunshine," he mutters, the pillow devouring half of the sounds. "Wanna strangle him?"

Tim is remains barely resembling a human body lying there on the bed, Tim talks to the predatory pillow, but John hears him.

Night falls on John's pretty face.

  
A bit later their afternoon commences, and after Tim purges the horse shit out of his mouth and introduces his teeth to cigarettes anew, after Ginger leaves the kitchen all three of them are spending quality time at, after he starts sneezing because Tim, a morning culinary genius, decided they needed a touch of cayenne pepper on the eggs Ginger is obsessed with and that touch ended up being more of a satisfying punch in the face, after Ginger leaves, heading to purge the snot out of his nose and staying in the bathroom for a few millenia as if there is a part of his anatomy Tim isn't intimately familiar with and his nostrils are infinitely deep, after Tim stays alone with John he asks him again, using a more businesslike approach.

He asks John when, where and how, because he's no-nonsense when it comes to suffocation.

  
It's four days later, because John's a chicken caught in the five stages of grief and loss, though he skips depression.

It's at the house that has a kitchen things don't evaporate from, because Tim has grand plans for their post-strangulation dinner.

or is it because you started touching the glass you can't look through, and you leave grease stains on the windows, you leave your illegal fingerprints, and John won't have it, if he sees them, fuck, if he sees them, then... no, you're just paranoid, calm the fuck down, if he sees them at your place he'll just think Ginger fucked you there, standing, which he did, and you gave highfives to the passers-by, smearing the glass with the sweat on your palms, which you did, he'll think that and not what you're thinking, and _va te faire foutre_ , by the way

It's with John's bare hands, because even thinking about the pretentious cloth is forbidden. Because Tim is as obsessed with that purple velvet bullshit as Ginger is with eggs - as John is with guitars - and this project is not about Tim.

  
And it's tricky, because... 

  
"That okay?" John asks, fitting his hand awkwardly around Ginger's throat, as awkward as Ginger was when wrapping his palm around Tim's cock for the first time, as awkward as John wasn't when molesting the fingerboard back when he was a toddler, as awkward and reluctant and doubtful as Tim has never been. "I'm... I'm not gonna do anything, you know. I'm just... Am I scaring you?"

Tim looks at John's talented extremity failing to provide any pressure like one of a complete loser, and shakes his head, slapping it away.

"You are not," he says, his self-directed hand in Ginger's hair already. "And that's the problem."

  
They are sitting, Ginger on the bed, John on the chair, Tim towering above them, a weird fucking triptych of voodoo and stupid worries, and John has confirmed that yes, he kind of wants to strangle Ginger, well, not _strangle_ strangle him, but like just a bit, and Tim has smirked and said _yeah, those impulses you reserve for me_ , and Ginger has agreed, damn, Ginger agreed to everything back when Tim first wrapped his palm around his awesome cock, Ginger has agreed to sugary asphyxiation, has said he kind of wants it too, but has not elaborated on his reasons, so now Tim has to do all the hard work for him and John. 

"Hey, harpy nestling," Tim says, talking to the predatory moron, yanking Ginger head back, exposing the point of their discussion. “Look.” His homing weapon of a hand lands on Ginger’s throat, thumb right over his carotid artery. His warheads know their way. “He likes being scared.” He moves the death carriage in slow circles, Ginger’s heartbeat reverberating on his callous skin. “Don’t you, breakfast?” 

Ginger’s warm, wet breath coats him, as Ginger goes through the rapid stages of becoming a compliant goo just like he skipped his reasons for wanting to be a dessert for John.

John looks like he listened way too carefully when his parents told him eating sentient jelly was a deadly sin.

“He likes being scared, John,” Tim explains, battling childhood conditioning. “Why do you think he agreed? Why do you think he lets me do it even though _I_ fucking might do something? not to mention you have almost drowned him, jesus, you’ve really almost drowned him, you fucking dream of it, still dream of it, still haven’t told John, have you, coward, sure, right, he won’t get it, he won’t understand, he is so dumb, or maybe fuck you, Tim, maybe his intelligence is fine, maybe you’re just a hungry, mental shark, maybe, huh? huh? answer me Why do you think his awesome cock is getting hard right now?”

And it so is. And his too. And Ginger's gulping, glancing up at him, devotion at the death bed, but this is not about Tim.

John purses his lips, swallowing the unspoken insults only to spit them out later in Tim's face when they've been processed by the internal flame of his magma chamber. John listens to him.

John never skips the anger.

"It's simple, John," Tim says. "Like a basic chord progression. He shits himself and hates himself for it and for allowing to be treated like a piece of dirt, but since he is a piece of dirt it is his place and there is no worth in him staying alive and here comes the perfect creature who can do anything with him, who is fuck knows why willing to touch him, and he wants that even if the touch is a deathblow, so being hurt feels like being loved and he feels like he'll do anything and he will."

"Fuck," John says.

 _This just must sound like pure honey to your greedy ears_ , Tim thinks.

 _Like pure honey you're condemned to look at and never taste_ , Tim thinks.

 _Well, dear, fuck the fate, I make the rules around here_ , Tim thinks.

"And in that moment, John," Tim goes on. "In that moment he forgets what a disgusting slime he is. Don't you, fodder?" 

"Tim," Ginger says.

Tim chuckles.

"It makes him happy, John," he continues. "And okay, I'm not sure which part exactly gives him a boner, but it so does. Check it out."

He nudges Ginger, and he shivers, spreading his legs, and John's gaze slides down Tim's obnoxious looming form to get stuck in the midst of wrinkles on Ginger's boxers that don't conceal a thing. John most definitely checks out Ginger's boner.

Everyone in the room does.

"See?" Tim asks fourteen billion years later, saving all three of them from the phallic coma. "So just do it. You want it. He wants it. That's what we're here for."

John briefly glances at his face, barely even noticing his features, and spends many more seconds studying Ginger's.

"Ginj, you---" he starts. Stubborn bastard.

"Yeah," Ginger nods. "I uh... I want you to. It's... Feels nice, you know. Like..." He smiles weakly. "It is scary. A bit. But nice. And I... I like it. I want you. To do it. If you..." John nods. "I uh... I like your hands."

 _Well, that's another way to put it_ , Tim thinks.

"Alright?" Tim asks, and now that everything's explained John finally consents to what he himself wants to instigate. "Great. Squid, you good?" His fingers have been travelling between the strands throughout the whole time. Selfish, grabby digits. "Do you have enough juice to proceed? Not too emptied? I mean, you seem to be a little overly excited around there."

He nods at Ginger's cock defying gravity and threatening to tear a hole in his loose boxers, and Ginger laughs, resting his head on his palm.

"I'm fine, yeah," he says, looking up at him. "Thanks."

 _You and your fucking gratitude_ , Tim thinks.

"My pleasure," Tim says, smirking, nodding at his own rock hard cock. "Anyway. Come on. Chop-chop. We don't have forever and you haven't yet earned what I've planned to cook for you."

  
With that the gentle idiots hold hands, Ginger offering his to John in a request, just like he offered him his throat, and John takes both, his tentacle and his own birthday present, and now it is only awkward at the very start, for a fraction of a second, because John must be like eighty four by now and he has done things, it's just this thing is risky and has a reputation of being Tim's mad bullshit no sane virtuoso would ever, ever even think of, yet he has and now there are full blown gardens of the weeds Tim's planted in John's mind, the weeds that are being watered by John's own avid lava that wants everything Tim's appalling teeth have ever touched, that wants to kick them out of his trap, that wants to do it better, to be the best, the one, the only, and also not so sane virtuoso is quite proficient in throttling Tim, and that...

Tim watches as John's fingers find the perfect spots to curve around and press on Ginger's gulping throat, Tim looks at Ginger's parted lips, at the succession of fear, shame, surrender, arousal and love in his black eyes, at his heaving stomach, his awesome cock, at John's cock, sadly clad in jeans, at John's belly the squid will soon end up in, at John's throat the blood is trickling down, at his pretty face, alien and horrible and sweet, at his dilated pupils, at waves of glee, desire and delight that are emanating from him, engulfing Tim like fog, and then he sees John's hand squeezing Ginger's trembling tentacle he's given to him to hold him while he's being hurt by him and it is crushing it, the plasma of Ginger's fingers looking like pure pain, vibrating, but unmoving, staying still and taking it, and when Tim looks at John's other hand, the one that is admiring the sight Tim's also fond of by touch, he sees that John's fingers have already dug past the tender surface, that they are sinking in, his knuckles white, skin tense, bones sharp, and there's wailing hanging off Ginger's lips he's confused about, not knowing whether to let it out or be silent becase who's he here to complain, there's a lack of relevant experience on both their parts.

"Hey, hey!" Tim says, wrapping his hand around John's wrist. "Enthusiastic torture neophyte. He isn't me. Keep your homicidal urge at bay."

John shakes, Tim's voice cutting through the current that was firing his brain, and blinks dumbly. And doesn't skip the anger.

"What? What th---"

"Look," Tim says, pushing his sanguinary head down, making him look at the mess of flesh and bones he's turning Ginger's hand into. "You're gonna break it and I sincerely doubt you want that. You guys are in the same band. And you care."

John jumps, releasing Ginger's tentacle, and Ginger finally frees his pained cry he has been hiding, cradling his hand.

"Fuck, Ginj," John gasps, and Tim is also sprinkled with the cold shower he's having.

"It's okay, you idiot," Tim says. "Relax."

"John, it's fine," Ginger says too, trying to put his injured sprout on John's exquisite claw with sparkly nail polish, hesitating. "I'm fine, you haven't---"

"Yeah, _you_ have," Tim says, bending, shoving his timid goo between John's sweaty palms. "Fucking tell him if it's too much. We've talked about it. He listens to you. We all know how much you love being disregarded and mistreated, but this is not about that. Come to me if you want actual abuse. With him you have your candy chats, okay? I really don't feel like listening to his fucking whining about being a chainsaw murderer. It's way too ridiculous."

"Fuck," John says, hissing, and he totally would punch him were his hands not so busy being guilty. "You---"

"Shut up," Tim says. "I wasn't talking to you. Relax. Unwind a bit. It's fine. You just need a different tune, okay? Not that _die, die, die_ one you have playing in your head when you deal with me." 

John exhales loudly, squinting at him. A living breathing proof that's in denial.

"Fuck off," he says and looks at Ginger, moving closer to him. "You okay? Have I hurt you?"

"I uh... Yeah. A little. It's okay. I just..."

"You should've told me," John says. Ginger smiles softly, nods. John caresses his tentacle, brings it to his lips. "Sorry. You know, I didn't meant to."

"Of course. It's fine. I'm not..."

"I just..." John says, Ginger caressing his worried face now. "Donno, got distracted or something. You looked so... Hot."

 _Or yeah_ , Tim thinks. _You could put it like that too._

The bastards kiss.

"Do you want to..." John starts.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "I mean, if yo---"

"Yeah," John says. "Yes."

The candy chat ends, the pause after it ends too, and then John lifts his head, looking at Tim, waiting for guidance and biting his lips.

Tim shakes his head. Tim chuckles. Tim bends and kisses John's dumb, protesting forehead. Tim lets him push him.

"Okay, calm down," he says and sighs, touching his teeth with his tongue and assessing the sitting arrangements. "Move onto the bed, both of you. And give me a shitty corner too, please."

The bastards shift, and Tim lands next to them, wriggling to find a suitable position, grabbing John's hand and putting it on his own neck.

"Squeeze a bit," he instructs and moves his fingers, beckoning Ginger. "Squid." He gets a palmful of Ginger's throat almost immediately. He grins. "Okay, let's see."

He holds Ginger's throat, adjusting John's grip on his own, trying to process the sensations and align them, his nuclear chest rumbling, particles getting charged.

"Okay," he says, chaperoning John's fingers, patting his knuckles. "A little less repulsion and disgust. More horniness. And milder. Milder. Think telecasters, not hammers you're bashing my skull in with. Think Ginger's cock. Uh-huh. Like that. Like you're jerking his throat off. Like it's a coming sausage that spurts chocolate in your mouth. Yeah. Like that. Good little monster. Just like that. Now hold it." 

He transfers John's hand onto Ginger's neck, planting a kiss on both, and crawls to the side, having fullfilled his duties.

"Alright," he says, urging the bastards on. "Good luck. One, two, three. Go."

They turn away from him, staring at each other as if amoebas threw a party in their heads and party means pink goo, sugar and confetti, and Ginger lifts his tentacle, John catching it mid-air, revelling in its tenderness and softness, and they hold hands, in agreement, joined, together, they are close as John strangles Ginger the way he jerks him off, as if he is the best gift the dancing unicellular drops of life have given him, as if he is the only gift, as if he is the one, and Tim thinks that if he does indeed puke right now, choked on candy, he'll vomit happy, he's blessed, because it might be now at their place and with John's hands and it might be tricky, because there's been a history of crimes, it might be, but in this moment, once he pushed them, once he performed his function, once he stepped away, they are rotating on their own, in their mutual pull.

Luminous binary dumbasses shining bright.

  
They both fall, once he pushes them again, Ginger onto the bed, John on top of him, never separating, panting, moaning and hard, and it's not only the owner of the boxers Tim is pulling off who's useless and an obstacle, it's also another idiot fluctuating filthily above him, an idiot who wears jeans that are too tight, and it's a miracle Tim manages to free John of them, and what's also a miracle is John's beautiful naked spine, and every movement of his shoulders while he strangles Ginger is a wonder, and what is also a grace of gods is that John lets him stain his back with kisses while he's getting lost in Ginger and Ginger's getting lost in him, both caught in a loop of love, affection and inflicting damage, just a bit of it, a touch of cayenne pepper, and surely, there is no pepper on Tim's fingers he presses into John's salacious ass he puts up in the air bent over Ginger's breathless plasma that repeats his name, there is just lube, but John whines, as if Tim's fingers are two fiery metal objects filled with plutonium to the very brim and, truth be told, they are, because Tim's stretching John for him to get on Ginger's cock and it is Ginger's cock he's staring at while performing his penetration task, Ginger's awesome cock that makes him drool and John's perfect back he smears in his saliva, and he doesn't see Ginger's face, feverish red face, his wet eyes, black, devoted, his open mouth, his love he's giving, because it isn't him it's for, nothing here's for him, they are two stars caught in each other's pull and he's an interstellar warhead passing by, their fundamental interactions are between the two of them, he won't be poking his toothy snout into the midst of their muffled candy chat, he won't be looking at John's celestial hand claiming Ginger's sacrificial throat, he doesn't see it, but he does, he sees all of it in every motion of every muscle on John's perfect back and he kisses all of them, every centimeter of his marble skin, taking breaks only to salivate at Ginger's cock and at John's hole he's preparing for it, and neither is for him.

Tim helps John onto Ginger's cock, and once he pushes his marble body down, John moans, low, deep, obscene, and a current goes through him, forming into symbols, telling Tim the exact positions of his fingers around Ginger's throat, and once John moans Ginger moans too, and his sobs confirm coordinates Tim has already calculated, confirm that John's unwrapping him just right, that he's been scared, ashamed, accepting and compliant, that now he's happy and that his boner is deep inside John's wanton ass and that, that Tim can see, clear as daylight, he watches John rocking his hips and Ginger's length disappearing in him, watches the sweat trickling down John's spine, the tremors going through the pool of jelly underneath him, and it is one, two, three and _god, forgive me_ , he falls face forward pressing his wide open mouth over the place where they connect and licks, dragging his tongue and lips and teeth over John's hole and Ginger's cock and balls, drowning, losing his vision, hearing, his imploding body, balancing there on the verge of nonexistence as a region of spacetime where gravity is so strong nothing can escape it, but a shitty, failing one, a one that's flapping its event horizon over pure light only to subside itself, to shrink and perish, and it must be providence that governs his destiny that day, because he's allowed to sample their bond and their orgasms, and if he is not the one creating them, then he at least helps the rightful authors, he pushes them and they collide, oscillate, collapse, shared joy ripping through them, and then they kiss, moaning into each other's mouths, uttering their lollipops that lack precision, they kiss and hold each other, while he's having a mouthful of Ginger's boiling come mixed with other, more rare and illicit delicacies, the beverage trickling down his throat out of John's wriggling, pulsing, fucked out ass.

  
When Tim's big grand white wine _coq au vin_ with morels is left to simmer in the pot and Tim returns from one magical location to the other, both John and Ginger are asleep, curled up around each other, naked, tied with predatory blankets winding over their bodies, warm and wrinkled, close and intertwined, and Ginger's facial orifices are leaking liquids onto John's smooth shoulder, his arm wrapped around John's abdomen he himself is being digested in, his messy hair tickling John's nostrils, the vertebrae of his neck exposed, as well as all the other ones, Tim following his spinal column with his eyes while he jerks off, standing in the middle of the room and staring at them, at Ginger's illegal back and at John's open mouth, John's blissful face, beautiful, radiant, overstuffed muzzle of a monstrous rupture in the crust of the Earth, at John's collarbones, impeccable just as John's throat creating noises he mustn't ever learn about is, at John's soft, resting cock he has grand plans for, Tim stands in the middle of the room and beats off, staring at them, choking himself and listening to Ginger's quiet drooling and John's snoring that will be his secret till the grave.


	13. Old MacDonald had no toothbrush

  
This happens often.

At present it occurs in this 9th year on the first day of Payni, in which month is celebrated the festival of New Year...

  
The first time it takes place Ginger...

"I'm gonna come," he says, before he comes. "Please, give me yours."

  
The first time that it happens Tim throws two dildos on the bed before they both undress, and it is close to midnight, eleven forty five or something, Tim pulls off his chequered shirt he's wearing and Ginger's hair is unwashed, they're in the middle of one of those periods of getting marinated in their own filth, so there are also peanuts all around them and half empty beer bottles adding their stink to the whole scene.

Tim sweeps the peanut sand off the sheets and throws dildos on the mattress and falls on top of it and beckons Ginger with his finger. He slowly jerks off, applying mild pressure and some pretty gentle gyrating to his cock, and watches Ginger's attempts to stretch himself, which are miserable as always. 

Which make Tim's blood boil.

Another given - Ginger can't get the dildo in on his initial try. He lubes it up, while red spreads across his face, and bends his knee, putting his hand behind himself, and then he misses, his facial muscles twitching, which makes him look way too sorry about such minor incident.

Which makes Tim vaporize in fission.

"Hands," Tim says, grabbing both Ginger's wrists when Ginger holds them out for him - that fucking gesture almost detonates him on the spot - and pressing on them, pressing them into the mattress with one hand, using his other hand to thrust the dildo in Ginger's hole without any mercy, hesitation or missed turns.

Tim feels the flow of Ginger's blood pulsing underneath his fingers, and Ginger lets out a long, soft, vibrating cry, though he is not complaining.

It's just Tim hurts him as he always does and he discloses his reaction.

"Go on," Tim says, letting go of his wrists once his foul penetration task is done and lying back down next to him, a smile playing on his lips as an encouragement, which isn't at all necessary, but.

He watches Ginger fuck himself with clumsiness, unease and with delicious trembling.

It is quite possible his most beloved show.

It makes his teeth grow larger, makes him show them, makes him want to see Ginger's teeth.

Tim lifts his hand, brushes it against Ginger's throat and chin, a menace of his caress, and the moment his fingertips touch Ginger's lips he parts them, opening up for him.

It does wretched things to him.

Tim looks at Ginger crossing the threshold, entering himself, his hips and stomach slightly tensing up, those little awkward shudders that Tim treasures, those shudders he feels under his own palms, each and every one of them, looks at the thin, white, tender skin of his throat that also moves once in a while when Ginger swallows, at his body that is heating up, that is so close to him Tim feels like he might be able to determine the exact temperature, looks at his cock that simply makes him want to abandon everything he's doing or has ever planned on doing and just impale himself on it like on a spear, Tim looks at Ginger, at his face, touching his lips and yearning to do wretched things to him.

He doesn't say _go on_ again, stays silent, but Ginger nods, closing his eyes for a brief second, letting him take a sip of his fears and worries, and pulls the dildo out, bringing it up to his mouth instead of Tim's fingers.

It's kind of odd, but during that another pause before he licks it Tim feels as if he is frightened too.

Those little stings and tingles that make him light and sort of fragile, ephemeral, the currents shimmering inside him.

He watches Ginger lick the dildo, three or four careful strokes of tongue, tentative, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering, Tim watches him take it in and suck on it, eyes open, Ginger looking at him, those little half moans half exhales he lets out reaching his ears, wet and wavering, always unsure, they made him lose his mind the first time he heard them and they still do and he remembers each and every one of them, they are the signs that Ginger melts and they make him melt as well.

The show just keeps getting better.

The show of Ginger opening up before him.

He watches Ginger clean the dildo off his own shit he still thinks is there even though Tim has only occasionally found the evidence of that - and he's been digging thoroughly.

He watches Ginger let the dildo out of his mouth, sending it back inside his hole with his unsteady hand.

He's still afraid, but now he has kind of accepted it, his fear, he's kind of comfortable with it, he allows Tim a full view of it, he lets him take it as it is.

Tim brushes a finger over his lips.

There aren't any currents in his body anymore, there are tides.

He knows what Ginger's thinking.

He's smearing excrements over his face. He's caressing the slime he is. He - not _he_ \- is disgusting. He's where he belongs.

Tim might not know the exact expressions yet, not all of them, he hasn't heard them so far, but he fucking knows.

Tim pushes two fingers in.

Tim watches Ginger suck on them, saliva sticking to his skin, pushing the dildo in and out, the slime he is stuck to it.

Moans and exhales.

Tim pulls the fingers out, kisses Ginger, just a quick touch of lips, his hand then disappears behind his back, he shoves the fingers in, almost at once, a somewhat rushed, but obviously successful attempt to stretch himself.

He doesn't moan or exhale or give these little shudders or hesitate or feel anxious, awkward, ugly, worthless when he is doing that, when he is getting fucked or when he fucks himself, he feels... Well, kind of great, gets overly excited very quickly, kind of urgent and impatient, he's sort of sitting on the cock as if it is the very edge of his seat, whereas for Ginger it's more like pins and needles, and his face surely doesn't look the same, it kind of looks like whichever bolt that locked his eager back door is the best thing in the world and he is absolutely mad about it or at least he's deeply pleased, the deeper the bolt sheathed the better, it is without question different, but it will fucking do.

He'll make it do.

Ginger looks at him fingering himself.

In awe.

It doesn't last, the fingering, not the awe, that seems to be forever, Tim pulls his fingers out and lubes the dildo and aligns it with his hole, bending the knee, he grabs Ginger's hand, stops him for a short while, he puts it on the dildo and his own on it and he presses, making Ginger shove the dildo in the way Tim wants him to, the way Tim put the other one in Ginger's ass.

It's Ginger who makes that long, soft, vibrating cry again, while Tim is busy baring his teeth at the sensation.

It's Ginger who is hurt again.

They look at each other fucking themselves. They are both enchanted, but there are distinctions to be made about what it is they see and what they say and what they feel.

There is intensity in Tim's gaze that Ginger's lacks, he sort of holds him with it, pins him down, makes him stay where he is now and keeps him there, it isn't just a look, it's an imperative, and for Ginger it must feel like being dragged inside and tied to the chair, his natural inclination is to stay afar and steal the glances and maybe, once in a fourteen billion years, brush his scared fingertips over the hem of Tim's jeans or something, which still seems too bold and inappropriate and simply wrong, but Tim does drag him inside and ties him to the chair, pins him in place, so he has no choice but to look without being able to turn away, because he's so overwhelmed, astounded and shocked, and also there is a difference in movement, Tim is not exactly civil with himself, it's kind of rough and he outputs high voltage with his whole body, a spacecraft could be powered off him, and he is not at all timid about his satisfaction with the process, his upper lip is pulled up kind of involuntarily, without any efforts, his happy teeth are on display, everything is and it is easy for him, the gates of his inner chambers are swung open at his careless, nonchalant touch, and as for Ginger, his motions are reserved, though he isn't always careful, not that it is his intention to get hurt, it's just his hand is wet and slippery and Tim is looking at him lying there with a dildo in his ass and he himself is staring at Tim screwing another one inside his hole, so that is that, he's aroused and his eyes are black and he is shaking, but everything he does is somewhat constrained, as if he's stolen it from somebody, as if isn't all his to enjoy, which it fucking is, and his insides are also all visible and observed closely, but for him it's hard, it is a self-inflicted sacrifice, though he is sure there is no value to anything he gives, no value to him, and they share the reverence they watch each other with, but Tim's also has teeth, Tim's awe is hungry, Ginger's is ready to be starved if Tim so desires, so they aren't exactly mirrors lying there on the bed facing each other, but they are pretty close, they are together, and because they aren't mirrors the wet hot fog of their breaths doesn't make their vision blurry, even though it is quiet and warm and humid in the room, as if they are in a greenhouse, in a yeast solution, in the silky waters of the radioactive ocean, they are floating in the primordial soup, and because they are they kind of mix, going through autocatalysis, and Tim feels those self-conscious, nervous waves of joy and pleasure that roll over Ginger almost accidentally, always unexpected, always shaking him, Tim feels them travelling through him and oscillates himself, concerned he might chase them away, scare them off, they feel like they might flee at the lightest breeze, they would've been the most tender thing Tim's ever sensed if he had never touched Ginger, and Ginger... 

Tim wonders if Ginger feels the violent tides that are ripping through him.

He hopes he can.

And it just might be that he does, it just might, because when Tim looks at him, and he always looks at him, when he looks at him he sees the thoughts that are flying through his mind, they are written all over Ginger's blushing face, Tim's not sure about the shape they take, but if he were to make a bet he would say it's a humming swarm, but it is a dispersed one, and were he to consider the contents, the words that appear there, he would say there're no words, there are just pictures or rather whole scenes grasping all five senses, that those scenes are burning, sprayed with the chili pepper of incisive shame, those scenes are melting, flooded with the pliant jelly of that sacrifice that's worthless no matter how big or hard it is.

He knows what it is that Ginger's thinking.

He says nothing, he just nods, smiling at him, and Ginger lets out his moaning exhale looking at him as if he's given him permission to exist, he tears up and Tim watches him pull the dildo out again and take it back into his mouth, nightmares appearing on his face, transforming into happiness, in constant flux, Tim watches Ginger sucking on the dildo as if he's cutting himself open with a knife, Tim sees him crying and embarrassed, suffering and wanting that, sees him being in pain and beautiful and giving himself up, faint motions of his head, his trembling hand, his acquiescent lips around the dirty shaft, sees everything he gets.

He could've said he's so pretty now.

He could've said he's a shit eater.

He doesn't, he simply waits until Ginger pulls the dildo out of his mouth, moaning as he is doing that, gutting Tim without knowing it, gutting him with his most tender tentacles, he waits until Ginger pushes the dildo back inside himself and turns to Tim, as if he's also expecting something, as if he waits for Tim to tell him what to do, how to get hurt, which Tim also could've done and has done, but this time he doesn't, he simply recreates the scene he's just beheld, pulling out his dildo and licking it in broad motions, generously, with no reluctance, dragging it over his tongue and sucking on it, battling the urge to grab Ginger's face with his free hand and make him look, because he's already looking, do that and make him see, believe and fucking get it, and, god, it feels like he's doing that as well, Tim hopes he is.

The sounds Ginger breathes out while looking at him licking up his mess synchronize with those he is letting out.

They aren't one, but they are two.

The next time Ginger pulls the dildo out Tim doesn't even nod, says nothing, just doesn't move, he slows down and looks at him, broadcasting the melody of his inner chambers, praying to all things magical that Ginger understands what it is he wants and _how_ he wants it, that Ginger understands that it's an offer, not an order, and Ginger studies him for a few moments, eyes gliding over his transparent surface, questioning, uncertain...

Ginger brings the dildo up to Tim's lips.

It is as if a fucking supernova goes off inside of him, a fucking thousand of them.

He sucks on it, licks it like Ginger would, like Ginger wanted to, like Ginger likes to do, he eats his shit instead of him.

He moans.

Ginger watches him sucking on the dirty dildo and wriggling on another filthy one.

They moan together.

Then, when it is Tim who frees his hole, it's Ginger who licks up his mess.

Like Tim would himself, like he wanted doing, almost exactly like him, but with some help, because it's Tim who operates the dildo, pushing it slowly in and out of his mouth while Ginger's flapping on the other one.

Then, when both of them can't do much else apart from shaking, lost in the ocean, after they exchange the cocks once more, after they fuck each other's mouths at the same time, after Ginger's fingertips grace Tim's lips by being present on them while Tim is circling his, after they dissolve completely, when they can't take it anymore, then Ginger speaks.

"I'm gonna come," he says, shuddering with his whole body, already a pile of goo. "Please, give me yours."

And then he comes.

He comes while Tim is holding the dildo covered in his sewage next to his lips for him to suck while he's coming.

Which is exactly how he does it.

But with so much more to it.

Tim watches him come trapped between two spears, liqifying there, quivering and sweaty, black eyes staring up at him. 

Tim feels what it is he feels.

But also - much more than that.

When Ginger falls on the bed, molten, fluid, helpless, when he floats there in the solution of their bodies Tim sits up, bending over him, he pulls both dildos out of him, first the one Ginger's been sucking on, then the one he came on, and he shoves the first one in his hole, grinding down on it, completely inconsiderate to the tissue it is penetrating, he puts another one in Ginger's hand, he puts his mouth on it, suspended over Ginger in his fall that's soon about to terminate in fire and radioactive ashes, he holds Ginger by his hair, making him look and see, making him get it, he traps himself between two spears, his blacked out void of nightmares and affection staring down at him.

When Tim falls on Ginger, Ginger catches him and holds him.

Tim comes, impaling himself on his skewer, on both of them, doing that as if both of them are Ginger's, as if it's Ginger himself that he's pierced through by, which he in all sincerity tries to be while coming, Tim comes, turning into smoke and gas and mere atoms right above him, and when he falls, when Ginger catches him and holds him, then he knows that Ginger knows what it is he feels.

What's more - Ginger speaks.

"Fuck, Tim," he says, while hugging him, engulfing him in plasma, carrying him. "You love me."

Tim half exhales and half moans.

Tim cries in pain.

"You love me so much," Ginger says, while soothing him.

"Yeah," Tim says.

"God," Ginger says, while Tim is shuddering on top of him. "You're so close."

And he is shuddering on top of him, but that is not what this is about.

"Yes," Tim says. "You're inside me."

He feels Ginger's loving tentacles touching his face.

He lets Ginger wipe off his tears and sweat and fucking worship him by touching him.

"Are we..." Ginger says, cupping his snout like the most precious thing and looking up at him. "Are we doing this again?"

Tim chuckles softly, pressing his snout into his palm.

"We are doing anything we want."

  
That time when they do it at the hotel with their fingers Ginger isn't silent either.

"Put..." he says, trying to grab at Tim's hand. "Put yours inside me." He's almost there, on the verge of thawing. "Want you to feel. How I... Clench. When I come."

  
They spent their days away together, because Ginger followed him, acting as something in between his stalker and his personal photographer, Tim went on a short solo tour and pulled the strings on stage and Ginger joined him, he'd said he wanted to, and they were packing, Tim was going through their stuff and throwing mismatched socks into the bag, Tim stopped for a second, getting an idea, neurons firing, activating his long-term memory, Tim stopped and looked at Ginger methodically folding shirts.

"Hey," he asked and waited till Ginger turned his face to him. "Do you want the dildos?"

Of course, Tim waited till Ginger turned his face to him. 

And blinked and blushed and looked away and looked at him and smiled, tried smiling like three times and finally succeeded, he offered one of his favorite treats to him.

"Yeah," he nodded.

  
But then they couldn't find the damn things, so they used their fingers.

  
It is because Ginger is looking at his molten face and pillow mixture that Tim wakes up.

He might be going crazy might, ha but he really feels it when Ginger studies the curvatures of his passed out features in the morning.

He forces the two deserts of his eyes open and steers the rotten log of his body to lie on the side.

He's hardly breakfast in bed, more like a three week old cadaver, but judging by Ginger's affectionate expression someone there has a thing for the dead and decomposing.

"The slain salute you," he mutters, accepting the cigarette in his wasteland of a mouth and studying Ginger's warmth emitting body.

And Ginger _is_ an early bite. And he is hard.

Tim chuckles, creating clouds of smoke, and shakes his head.

"You know, we might need to take you to a vet, squid," he says, pointing at Ginger's erect cock with his eyes. "You won't ever produce offspring if you keep making passes at corpses."

"Fuck off," Ginger greets him, taking the cigarette from him. "I was just looking at you."

"And now you have the most massive boner," Tim says, trying to stretch his numb limbs. "By the way, I wouldn't have minded desecration either, so..."

Ginger pushes him. 

His blood finally starts cruising in his veins.

"No? No vandalism?" Tim asks, snatching the smoke and propping himself up on one elbow. Ginger lets out a short laugh and shifts too, fluffing the pillow. "Okay." 

Tim finishes the cigarette, scanning Ginger's face. Tim puts it out.

"Jerk off for me," he says.

  
So that time it starts off as something different, as a lazy meal, a light snack before another day of labour.

"Okay," Ginger says that time and licks his lips, filling the little pause of quiet motionlessness, and then pulls up his wifebeater with that fast and jumpy move that is probably stored in a very specific section of Tim's brain devoted to preserve this action and this action only, as if it was a precious gem.

"Okay," Ginger says and pulls down his boxers, slowly and somewhat awkwardly, and obviously Tim salivates at the sight of his cock being freed, producing gallons of radioactive spit within milliseconds, but the way it is brought to liberty is also carefully noted by him.

It's fucking tasty.

  
The way Ginger's stomach kind of quivers, as if he's being tickled, when he wraps his hand around his cock, is a delicacy.

nassau st

Tim's watching him, closely, it's not an examination, nothing like it, he's simply visually enjoying him, the way his stomach falls and rises, trembles, soft and scared, the way his ribs are resting under the skin while looking restless, the way his hips give these little jolts and shudders, the way he pushes into his own palm almost imperceptibly, the way his skin gradually acquires different color, the way the thin, light hairs on his arms stand on ends, the way his tongue touches his lower lip - Ginger himself most likely doesn't notice doing that - and the way his lower lip gets caught under his upper teeth, again, for Tim's attention only, the way he blinks, his eyes becoming darker with every passing moment, the way he allows Tim to see him.

The way he shivers when Tim lifts his wifebeater even higher, as if he's removing peel.

The way he exhales a moan when Tim runs a finger over his exposed nipple.

  
He would've gladly shoved his whole fist inside him.

  
Right through that tender, trembling stomach.

  
But not that morning.

Not in that hotel.

Not yet.

  
Tim swallows down blood, lying there on the bed with him, propped on one elbow, and watches him.

He wants to eat him.

Obscene atrocities are commited in his overheating mind.

He lies right next to Ginger and watches him.

  
The way his fingers glide along the shaft.

The way he's circling the head with his thumb.

  
Tim watches Ginger jerking off the way he knows Tim likes watching him jerk off.

The way he likes jerking off when Tim is watching him.

  
He moans softly, when Tim rubs at his nipple. He gives another shudder, stops, starts pulling off the boxers, now hastily, but still awkward, so they get trapped around the ankles and he swears, while Tim laughs at him just a bit.

Tim then helps him take off the wifebeater.

  
Tim watches Ginger jerking off, lying there right next to him, completely naked now, just like Tim himself.

Tim thinks of reproductions.

Briefly.

  
After Ginger lies back down, naked and aroused, there is another pause for Tim to swallow, so he does and it doesn't try his patience, he's idle, and also just a second later Ginger runs his palms over his body slowly, palms and fingers, enjoying himself by touch for Tim, like on those occasions when Tim made him - or asked him - to enjoy himself by touch for _him_ , first in the darkness, under the blankets, after they'd been talking, when both of them were tired, both of them were sleepy, barely conscious, then with lights on, no blankets, while talking, then in front of mirrors and in front of Tim.

Nowhere to hide from him.

  
rowes wh or commonwealth

  
Ginger doesn't hide, he just traces patterns on his own skin, his stomach that responds as if it's raw, his thighs, his nipples, collar bones and throat - that's when Tim sees shooting stars - his lower lip he doesn't know he licks despite having licked it in front of mirrors countless times, Ginger enjoys himself in front of Tim, caressing his own skin.

Then Ginger starts jerking off again and Tim continues watching him.

  
A roman fucking emperor, insatiable, but too pampered to bring the silverware up to his lips himself.

  
Ginger finds his way into his mouth on his own anyway.

  
Then the broadcast's interrupted suddenly, because Ginger stops, and sure, Tim has been portraying an archetype of sloth, just lying there, naked and aroused, within arm's length from another naked and aroused creature that he loves, just looking at him, full of lust and hunger and nightmares, but still he frowns, he's about to ask what's wrong. 

And nothing's wrong.

  
Ginger stops jerking off and shivers, in search of something on Tim's face, and then he lifts his hand and brings his fingers to his lips and sucks on them.

Doing perfect things even when he's exempt.

Tim smiles. 

Tim raises his eyebrows, smiling, and Ginger simply lets him look while sucking on his own fingers.

  
Tim watches Ginger push the fingers in.

He doesn't see how exactly he is doing that, doesn't see how his fingers breach his hole, how they slip in, they're lying on their sides close to each other, so close their breaths are mixing, so Tim can't see how Ginger fucks his fingers into his hole, but he doesn't need to to know how he is doing that, because he sees his eyes, his face, his whole naked body.

He's careful and patient, but not gentle, that requires liking what you touch, having a thing for that, and while there is still space in Tim's mind that's suitable for thoughts he thinks of the next time they will be naked and aroused in front of mirrors, of what he'll say and what he'll make or ask Ginger to do, of how they will be doing that until Ginger's fucking fingertips develop those perversions Tim's exhibit, which isn't just daydreaming, because all Tim thinks of happens. 

What happens now is that Ginger carefully pushes his fingers in his hole, and there are three or four little misses and clumsy turns, but nothing major, so Ginger doesn't panic, just tries again, more slowly, and Tim might have actually overlooked or miscounted Ginger's tiny fails, because when Ginger's fingers miss their target - and when they reach it - Ginger jerks his hips a bit and his cock bounces, swaying in the air, and Tim's mouth is struck by drought immediately.

Tim's mind's blank.

Then when he regains his senses he remembers those other scenes from those other shows involving the same big and hot and awesome item he can never get enough of, those times when they were naked and aroused in front of mirrors, when Ginger touched himself, his sweaty, trembling body, touched himself for ages, while looking, at Tim and at his own cock, avoiding it, just torturing himself, just doing that with Tim and driving him insane, not much effort needed, Tim is already not alright up in the head, those times when they both watched.

Those other spectacles that mostly ended down Tim's blissful throat.

Sometimes on Tim's no less happy mug.

  
This morning, though, Tim's face feels kind of... taut.

He licks his teeth and watches Ginger fuck himself, moving his hips so that Tim gets to have ghost sensations of his cock filling up his mouth.

Tim's so relaxed he won't even chew his food.

Then again, it's not like he needs to.

His food is goo.

  
Then constant motions of Ginger's hips and cock come to a halt, and Tim doesn't even frown, doesn't even wait, he simply watches what happens next.

What happens next is that Tim sucks on Ginger's filthy fingers.

With so many delicious breaks and pauses occuring while he lifts his hand.

With so many flavorful moans and exhales.

With no words being said.

Ginger just pulls his fingers out, lifts his hand and hesitates, hesitates at every step, but then his fingers are vibrating right next to Tim's smirking lips, so when Tim opens his mouth for him Ginger slips them in.

Tim sucks his filth off them, and Ginger moans.

  
This is when Ginger jerking off for Tim turns into that thing that takes place often, usually when they are lying on their sides and looking at each other as if there is a spear connecting them and coming with mostly imaginary excrements in their mouths, into that thing they do together, whatever it is called.

Crap camaraderie or something, who fucking cares.

  
Tim sucks on Ginger's fingers again a few minutes later when Ginger pulls them out once more.

Tim runs his thumb along the underside of Ginger's awesome cock while Ginger's fucking himself with his own fingers. Rubs at the nipples. Cock. Nipples. Cock.

Ginger's face looks like he is in pain. 

He is. You're fucking there.

Tim bumps his fingertips into his cock and watches how it bounces while Ginger's wriggling on his own fingers and watching how Tim is toying with his cock.

  
When Ginger lifts his hand again they share the fingers.

Tim is about to suck on them, to lick up Ginger's shit, when Ginger moans pathetically and shivers, moving closer, and then both of them are sucking on Ginger's fingers, their lips almost touching, Ginger's soft, wet, warm lips right next to his.

"You beautiful shit eater," Tim says, when his mouth's free, and pushes his own fingers into Ginger's.

  
Less than twenty seconds later they are deep in Tim's ass.

  
He's never been careful or patient.

  
To expect sensible behaviour from him now would be demented. 

Things they do together make him implode.

  
They lie on their sides that morning in a hotel room, on two pillows, but really close, breathing on each other's faces, and their body parts are touching, their knees and ankles, cocks and shoulders, noses and their lips, accidentally and on purpose, they fuck themselves on their fingers and they fuck each other, shoving, slipping, thrusting, pushing them inside their holes and then inside their mouths, in a reflective frenzy that is naked and aroused and a bit jumpy and sometimes hurried, but not fast, it isn't really slow, but it just doesn't end and it isn't angry, violent or scary, it isn't burning hot, it's more like really, really warm and humid and somewhat dark, as if they are floating in something thick and soft and kind of blind, as if they are pulled down by it, to the very bottom, this thing they do together just goes on, Tim lies there with Ginger and they are licking shit off each other's fingers and looking at each other getting penetrated, pierced by a spear, and seeing, because it isn't blurry depsite them lying so close and despite the ocean they are floating in being thick and soft and kind of blind, despite them exhaling moans into each other's face, despite their body parts bumping into each other, entangled, fins and tentacles, and their tongues are touching too, gracing their mouths and lips with waste, and Ginger kind of kisses Tim's upper teeth, and Tim kinds of blows Ginger's tongue as if it's Ginger's cock, and it's all as if they have fourteen billion sprouts of plasma and radioactive gas between the two of them which are in constant flux and in constant motion, it is as if their holes and their mouths are always occupied, which they just can't be, because Tim's right hand and arm mostly go numb, pressed into the mattress by his own weight, but it feels like they are, because they are just moaning and gasping all the time, with a touch of weeping and some snarls, though quiet ones, it feels like all their cavities are full, all their inner chambers, there is plutonium and goo and fins and teeth and tentacles and Ginger's soft, sweaty hair Tim pushes off his face, there're each other's particles inside them, they aren't empty, they are complete and mixed, they are doing it together.

When they feel like they can't do it any longer, because they're going to disintegrate right there and then, Tim pushes his heavy, shaking, transmutating body up, helping Ginger to turn onto his back, and Ginger grabs at his hand, jerking his hips up and down, fucking himself on his own fingers that have just been in Tim's mouth.

"Put yours inside me," Ginger says. "I want you to feel how I clench when I come."

But with breaks and pauses.

  
Then Tim shoves his fingers that have just been in his mouth in Ginger's hole, while Ginger puts his lips around his own soiled ones.

Then Tim watches how Ginger comes, sucking filth off his own soiled fingers and jerking off the way that makes him into jelly because it is the way Tim jerks him off.

Then Tim feels how Ginger clenches, coming.

  
It's tight and warm and wet and so soft and helpless and ridiculous and beautiful and perfect, it's simply fucking perfect.

Faultless.

  
Unlike you.

  
They are both in tears when Ginger comes, lying there on his back, sweaty, open and exposed, legs spread apart and lifted, hips jerking up and down, Ginger trapped between Tim's and his own fingers, moving as if he's being rocked by waves, with a pattern too complex to be determined or calculated, moving the way the paper boats do, accepting any outcome with equal joy, but also with tears, and they are in tears when Ginger comes, clenching on Tim's fingers and sucking on his own filthy ones, trembling like a pile of tentacles, and they are still in tears when Tim pulls his fingers out, still feeling Ginger clenching on them, forever feeling that because he asked, when he then licks them, growling like he's in pain, when he lets himself be carried by the tides, when he sits on top of Ginger, holding him by his sweaty hair and pulling his mouth open, when Ginger shoves his four fingers in Tim's hole, wrapping his other hand around his cock, jerking him off the way Tim himself does, while Tim grinds down, stretching his soft, warm, wet lips as wide as he can and staring down at him, at his blazing face that does wretched things to his blazing chest, at tears in his eyes through tears in his eyes, at his own cock being squeezed and slapped right next to Ginger's open mouth, bouncing and swaying, touching Ginger's tongue and teeth, at how he comes on Ginger's lips and tongue and teeth and face, clenching around Ginger's fingers, letting - or making - him feel everything he makes him feel.

  
Tim plays like the shark god of the ocean that day.

  
And then there is this other day.

But as the case will occur, the rise of Sothis advances to another day in every 4 years, the day of celebration of this feast, shall not pass along but it shall be celebrated on first day of Payni and the feast shall be celebrated as in the ninth year.

A day that is unique, but then also repeated, though not precisely.

Things are changing.

  
Tim throws two dildos on the mattress that day.

They are at home.

They aren't lying on their sides, they sit on their feet, facing each other, naked, and Ginger is aroused, Tim is a bit behind him, Tim licks his fingers and pushes them in Ginger.

Ginger moans.

Tim cups his face and smiles at him, that fucking soft, vibrating cry, but a milder version, because those are just fingers and they are heartless, sure, but it isn't yet the spear.

Tim licks Ginger's fingers, and Ginger pushes them in him.

Though _pushes_ is not the right word for it, of course.

They just kind of float inside him.

Then Ginger touches him with his tender, scared fucking hand, caressing and worship, he rocks his hips while Tim is rocking his, sinking deeper onto Ginger's gentle - so fucking gentle - fingers.

His heartless ones he thrusts inside him.

And Ginger moans.

And then they kiss.

Then Tim looks at him, and Ginger is much more anxious than usual, much more anxious than he has seen him in the last months they've spent doing this thing together, naked, tired, sleepy, alone in the darkness, in clarity, much more anxious than this singular day requires of him.

Tim knows what to do with those fears and worries.

Tim knows what he wants to do with them.

With him.

"Just wait a little," he says, brushing his thumb over Ginger's lower lip he's just licked, pulling his mouth open. "Just wait a bit and it will all be fine."

Then Ginger sucks his own filth off Tim's fingers.

  
This happens often and when it happens they aren't mirrors, but they are doing it together.

Today - today they travel with a different speed.

That special relativity thing or something.

Tim is aroused.

  
So today it happens like it happens, but with glitches, and Ginger moans somewhat miserably, sucking on Tim's fingers, tilting towards him, not yet suspended in his endless fall, but getting there, Tim touching his trembling shoulders, tender.

Abhorrent.

  
Then they kiss.

Then Tim kisses Ginger's fingertips covered in his own inner grime.

Then Tim licks them, smiling.

  
Ginger moans.

  
Ginger cries out, when Tim helps him onto the dildo.

"Shhh," he says, breathing it out right next to Ginger's parted lips, a few sibilants slithering inside his mouth. "It will all be fine."

His hands are gripping Ginger's thighs tight.

His hands are pushing him onto the spear.

"Shhh," he says again, dragging his tongue over Ginger's parted lips, collecting their shared shit. "Stop complaining. What can I do? You just like being hurt."

  
He whispers.

  
Ginger shudders, crying out, and laughs, and kisses him, moaning into his mouth, tongue touching his teeth.

Tim cups his wet face, when he pulls away.

"Here you go," he says some seconds later, sliding his fingers he's just touched his own ugly insides with between Ginger's warm lips. "My dear worthless slime."

  
What can he do now, when he has done all of that before.

  
What can he do, when he is the one who did it.

  
Die.

  
He helps Ginger move.

He lets him lick his dirty heartless fingers.

  
"Yeah?" he asks, when Ginger's eyes become opaque black holes that always pull him in.

Ginger moans.

Tim stops his motions, soothes his trembling thighs, calms down his stomach, salivating at his cock, lifting him up a bit, taking the dildo out of him.

"Suck your shit, love," he says, pushing the dildo in Ginger's mouth. "Swallow your disgusting filth, darling."

  
The only thing he can do is elevate the horrors.

  
Ginger moans.

  
Tim cups his face.

Tim fucks his mouth.

  
"Yeah?" he asks, when the dildo has been cleaned. 

Ginger looks at him, gulping, face in tears.

He's _asking_ him.

Ginger nods.

Tim smiles.

"Come on then," he says, and Ginger cries out when Tim goes down on the dildo Ginger's sweaty hand is holding while Tim's is holding it.

  
The thing is - they have been doing it together.

They know how they feel.

  
"You too?" Tim asks, grinding further down, sinking to the bottom, and Ginger nods again.

Tim spits onto the other dildo.

"Come on," he says and causes pain.

  
He causes pain.

He says _move_ and he swallows it and smiles at him crying and hugs him, heartless hands in the softest hair and on the most spineless back.

Those fucking vertebrae.

  
The oceanic waters match their speeds.

Their movements synchronize.

  
Tim yanks Ginger's head back, pulling at his hair.

"What?" he asks.

  
Ginger's been whispering his name.

  
Ginger moans, mouth falling open.

Tim smirks, face split in half, teeth and teeth and teeth and blood.

"You first?" he asks and doesn't wait for the answer. "Okay, sweetheart."

  
He could cite the English alphabet at him, it would still be torture.

  
Ginger comes on the dildo, Tim fucking his mouth with the other one.

Ginger comes covered in dirt and crying.

Ginger comes crying, and he is watching him.

  
Tim looks at him.

"Shhh," he says. "No need. I know."

Ginger laughs, hugs and kisses him, embracing his teeth.

"Please," he says, pulling away and laying the death carriage of his body on the sheets. "Let me."

  
Need he fucking say that.

  
Tim lies on his back today.

Tim comes on his back, head hanging off the bed, arms wide open, legs wide apart, hole and mouth full of shitty cocks, chest a nuclear explosion.

Tim comes undone, and he is watching him.

  
"Tim," Ginger says.

  
This happens often, but today Ginger says _Tim_ and he who has been watching him, he who has been watching them gets up and strangles him.

This happens often, but today John is watching them.

"Fuck," John says, voice breaking, the whiny bastard's crying.

John gets up and puts his hand around his throat.

  
Let's tell him and let's show him.

What is it you want to tell him and to show him.

  
What indeed.

  
"Fuck," John says, wrapping his fingers around Tim's throat and around his own cock, the head touching Tim's lips. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

  
What are you, Tim?

  
Alzheimer's, ha.

Even if Tim cuts all three of their heads off and grinds them with a pounder standing in the kitchen naked with a cigarette between his teeth and two of his fingers between Ginger's lips.

Even if he turns all three of their skulls into flour for baking ugly cakes for John.

Even he obliterates all three of them, it won't be of any use.

  
"Fuck, Ginger," John says, strangling Tim and coming in his wide open mouth. "I fucking love you."

  
This happens often, but today John and Ginger kiss, moaning into each other's kissing mouths, their knees around Tim's suffocating body.

This happens often, but today John kisses Ginger and hurts Tim.

  
"Oh, what have you done, you dumb motherfucker?" Tim asks, breathless, a victim of a satanic ritual, face covered in come, head hanging upside down off the bed, the kissing moaning bastards looking at him. "I don't deserve this."

Then John slaps him lightly and Ginger laughs at him.

  
This happens often, and usually, well, lately, this has been going for quite some time, lately Ginger isn't even anxious, he's just happy, he likes being hurt, a beautiful shit eater, and they have been doing it together, bonding, alone and mixing with each other, talking, being silent too, this happens often and then, when it ends, mostly they just lie together, limbs entangled, breathing each other's CO2, soiled lips touching, heads on one pillow, mostly they just lie together until they fall asleep.

Sometimes they wash their mouths, but not on each occasion.

Mostly they just fall asleep, marinating in their own filth.

Today, though, Tim goes to the kitchen to make dinner and leaves the kissing moaning bastards to snuggle and fall asleep without him.

And that too has happened so many times, but today John stays awake.

Today John finds him standing in the kitchen, a cigarette between his teeth, both of his somewhat irritated hands engaged in hostilities with fucking spinach gnocchi which turn out to be impossibly tricky tiny dough jerks his heartless fingers were not meant to handle, though he manages to defeat them in the end and the three of them annihilate the nanoscale assholes with some cheese when they have their dinner in the morning.

But that happens in the morning.

And now, today, John finds him in the kitchen.

This has also occured on numerous occasions. 

There have been... talks.

Today, though, today they don't say much.

"What is it?" Tim grits out, garotting the fucking dumplings. "Cookies, guitars or flattering remarks? Please, do be quick. I'm about to commit a genocide in here."

That's almost all that he says, and John says nothing.

John just puts both his hands on both his shoulders, turning him around.

John's eyes are red.

That's happened too, not once, and he not once was wiping tears off his devastated skin.

Today, though, it's not just that.

He's seen it many times, on their faces turned to each other, when they were lying side by side on one pillow, whispering and kissing, talking about their profound love or about their profound pain, not once mentioning its name, he's seen that feeling that now colors John's tired, sleepy face and he knows it's affection.

It's just it has never been directed at him.

He swallows hard.

John puts his hand around his throat, fingers touching the bruised imprints of themselves that are in bloom in there.

Today John kisses him.

  
There have been so many fucking heart-to-hearts.

  
Today, though, all he says, is _I haven't brushed my teeth._

And then John kisses him.

  
The next day they sit with him on the couch and feed him his own shit off the dildos.

They both kiss him.

  
He does not deserve this.


	14. Ich weiß, dass ich schon lange nicht geschrieben habe…

  
"Okay, this is a bullshit game, Anton," Tim exclaims, emerging from under the table in an insufficiently dishevelled state. "Stand the fuck up. You fucking owe me that load now."

  
As a preambule, Tim receives a letter written in a language he doesn't speak when sober. He doesn't realize who it is from until the letter explicitly calls him a _cocksucker fucker_ , whatever that might mean, while demanding that he roast that _großartig Schnitzel_ , which aren't the words that John has any knowledge or command of - and neither does Tim at the moment of reading the friendly correspondence - and which, despite the similar spelling mistakes distribution pattern, were not written by his magical guitar jerking hand - and Tim is sure of that, Tim gets up and checks on him, fast asleep and curled up around Ginger in the other room, naked, throughly fucked out and holding a corner of Ginger's pillow between his fingers, Tim then gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge and starts deciphering Anton's secret military message.

Apparently, Tim is having guests next week.

  
Some time is spent rearranging schedules, because the bastard's sudden and won't come here alone, yes, he remembers both Tim's colleagues that have fallen victim to Tim's charm, but does Tim, a _schamlos Arschloch_ , remember _them_ , and of course Tim does, how can he not.

Some time is spent furiously consulting the dictionary, because Tim has forgotten all his fucking _Denglish._

Some time is spent stocking up on booze, because dictionaries are no help, when Anton's _Flug is gecancelt_ , but Tim's previously mentioned indecent body part still _turnt him an._

Some time is spent on repeating names while doing a fucking roundelay, because there are now six people at his house, if counting him, and at least two of them are fussy and at least two of them have gold fish memory - Tim is not among them - and the only person who can keep their hairstyle consistent over the passing years is Tim himself.

Some time is spent on hugging, god, so much time is spent on hugging, because years have passed and yeah, he might have earned all those insults he'll understand better once he drinks enough, and those hands on his offensive butt and also on John's, because _warum nicht_ , those - at least five of them - he actually doesn't mind at all.

Two and a half hours are spent on roasting that schnitzel in the kitchen and, of course, in the end there is not just schnitzel, there's enough food to feed the whole undivided capital of the Bundesrepublik and a big part of fucking Munich too, but does that take forever, are there countless pilgrims who only make it worse, there fucking are, there is Anton who steals the meat when it's still raw and talks both his ears off and scrambles up his brain for good and taunts him with his cock Tim's dearly missed, but would only get if the goddamn schnitzel's good - speaking of insults - and there is John who steals the breadcrumbs, which is just... what kind of fuckery and nonsense is that, it's not like bastard's starving, and there is Sonja, who is generally a blessing and looks gorgeous with her new inconsistent hairstyle, but accidentally takes away the knife for it to end up in Anton's hands and thrown at an impromptu target that was drawn not by somebody, but by fucking Ginger, there is fucking Ginger who wants a kiss and wants to help, but only has two functional hands when it comes to drumming and otherwise is pretty useless and mostly busy asking questions that Anton - and Sonja too, she's got infected - answer in gibberish that Tim can't follow, and there is Stefan, who is supportive and efficient and his best friend and opens beer for him and is capable of sticking to a language while bringing Tim the news from Europe and who expedites the cooking process, and also there is Tim, who is progressively a drunken idiot and not a Michelin star chef he makes himself out to be, who burns himself, but luckily not Anton's favorite fucking schnitzel, repeatedly, and sucks on fingers of seven hands, on Anton's fingers because the fucking _Nazi_ won't let him anywhere near his cock, and on Ginger's fingers because Ginger shoves cigarettes in his chatty trap, and on John's fingers because John isn't starving, but Tim is, and John's fingers have custard on them for the better part of the evening, and on Sonja's fingers because John shoves them in Tim's mouth, having become inseparable with her within first twenty minutes after her arrival, and on Anton's fingers again because Anton knows that Tim wants his cock and comes to the kitchen to rub it - figuratively speaking - in his face and Tim will take what he can get, and on Stefan's fingers, because he shoves cigarettes in his chatty trap and then just keeps them there, fingers, not the cigarettes, entertaining Tim while Tim is busy with the stirring, and on his own fingers, because _warum the fuck nicht,_ because _eat shit, Anton_ , but not because he burnt them, it's Sonja who sucks on his burnt fingers because of that, because she is a blessing.

Then Tim's endless food's consumed, Ginger's endless questions are all answered, John's endless offers to play guitar are not at all inconspicuous and declined, Anton's demands to get him a motherfucking keyboard and let him smash it are met with both Tim's middle fingers, then Stefan's present for Tim is given to him, like, an actual fucking present and for Tim, panegyrics are then sung, then songs are sung too, mostly by Sonja and by John, and Tim is thanked, like, actually fucking thanked by Stefan for such an open-armed reception on such a short notice, then all of them are drunk and most of them are horny and most of them are idiots, then the major horny idiot says he calls this game The Anton Polo - of course he does - and that they simply must play it now and once Tim learns the rules he does concur, even though shortly thereafter he changes his mind about it.

  
Anton sucks John's cock.

  
Sucking cocks is all The Anton Polo is about.

Alright, not all of it, it is also about keeping a poker face while your cock is being sucked - _or your pussy's being licked, because the ladies are present here too_ , the lady in the room reminds them - and most of all it is about fucking with Tim personally, it is about getting on his knees first, citing inventor's rights and saying _dibs_ , it is getting to be the undertable entertainer before Tim, even though fellatio is not _Anton_ 's obsession.

  
And, naturally, it's _John_ 's cock the fucker sucks.

Which is just... insulting, and Tim could sue for defamation, it's just another act of spitting Tim in the face, because John's cock is Anton's second cock, tops, and the first one he probably simply tripped over and fell on with his offensive mouth while pissed drunk, because even during their last meeting - Jesus, was it really six fucking years ago - because even then Anton was still discoursing on what it is that makes a man a faggot and had theories - plural - to back his numerous opinions, so...

So Tim's life is _hard._

Tim's life gets even harder momentarily, because John is clocked by Stefan and then, just a few seconds later, by Sonja too, John giggles like a complete idiot, wriggling in his chair, almost jumping there, as if tickled, which he isn't, and that, that is embarrassing, and Tim says so, Tim questions John, asks him if he must put him to shame so much, and John, of course, tells him to fuck off and Anton, oh, what Anton talks about is being better than the main cocksucker and, sadly, now Tim is drunk enough to understand his linguistic diarrhea _perfectly_ , so he covers his ears with his hands and bellows at John to finally get down there and show some class for him.

  
Tim knows it is Sonja that John is courting.

Alright? He _knows._

  
And he is not alone in that, everybody else apart from Ginger is staring at her intently too, waiting for her to fuck up and spill a reaction to that class John is no doubt showing her, but the woman has a consummate poker face and betrays nothing, not a single thing, she just lets out a long convoluted string of German word roots all stuck together within seconds of her orgasm, pressing both her hands over John's head, which Tim cheers for, but this isn't actually clocking, it is too late to stop it, after all, Sonja is done and John is happy and substantially dishevelled when emerging from under the table, all ruined lips and glowing eyes and a pussy eating grin on his dumb fucking face, he sucks his soda through a straw while Tim makes a speech - a plea, if he is honest with himself - citing hospitality and his owner of the property rights, insisting that he is the one who gets to dive under the table now and there is no stopping him...

And there isn't.

  
Tim takes his much desired position with some swearing and some grunting, and what he is met with under the table is Anton's damn cock, of course, because the fucker took it out and let it hang there freely as Tim's greetings, so Tim chuckles, sitting there on the floor, and both Sonja and Anton tell him to shut up, and he does, he just unzips everybody else too and sits in a circle of four cocks and a wet pussy, with a dumb smile on his dumb fucking mug, stopping to salivate at Ginger and at the possible prospect of making him uncomfortable, even if it is at the expense of being exposed right away, too soon, but then figuring there will be another time for that and he needs to do what he needs to do, because fuck, did he miss the fucker, the fucker and his fucking cock, it is seriously almost impossible for Tim not to moan out loud when he finally puts his lips on Anton and his tongue on Anton, he puts his whole fucking face in there, but Tim manages, Tim is silent, it is Anton himself who isn't, it is him, the fucker, who lets out a long rapid string of German word roots all stuck together, both Stefan and Sonja laughing at him, sounding obnoxious, John tuning in with his giggling, Ginger simply blushing, Tim getting up, livid, way too presentable, not secretly face fucked at all, breathing out radioactive vapors in frustration, berating his dear guest.

"Okay, this is a bullshit game, Anton," he says, _and you're a bullshit player_ , he thinks. "Stand the fuck up," he says. "You fucking owe me that load now."

Which isn't true, Anton surely doesn't, but he stands up, laughing like a fucking donkey, and Tim yanks him closer, falls on the chair, Tim sucks him in, which is what he should've done from the very start, from the very first second of his arrival, sudden, but then late due to flights being cancelled, which is what he should've done at the doorstep of his own house, should've rolled out that red carpet and finished the bastard right away, because that's a proper welcome.

So anyway, Tim finally gets to suck Anton's cock for everyone to see and admire his heart's passion, to learn what friendships that last for years truly mean to him, and bellows at Ginger to come closer, never fully letting Anton out of his mouth, so it is all jargon that defies dictionaries just as much as Anton's, but Ginger understands him and comes closer, Anton helps him, Anton slaps Tim's hands away, says _Hände_ and laughs at him - he stops a bit later, so it is Tim who's laughing last - and Tim puts his hands behind his back and waits with an open mouth, luckily, not for long, because he gets to suck two cocks and that means he's rather busy, but Anton - fucker - still taunts him with them, with Ginger's too, grabbing at it and pulling it away from Tim, which is just... _I fucking own that_ , Tim slurs out between cocks, _how do you even dare_ , Tim says, glaring at the fucker, Tim is told to shut up and suck, which is... Which is exactly what he is more than happy to be doing and he isn't sure what it is that's going on at the other side of the table, because when he glances there when he has the chance he sees Stefan dying there trapped between John and Sonja, and when he glances there again John is nowhere to be seen, but Stefan is still dying, so Tim has a pretty good idea of John's location, and when he glances there once more it is Sonja whose presense is obscured from him, but Stefan is consistent in finding his demise and John is whining, so the thing that's going on at the other side of the table is no doubt intriguing and would earn his approval were he free to express it, but he isn't, his mouth is fucked thanks to Anton, his whole face is fucked, ruined, smeared in saliva, there is Ginger's cock sliding over his tongue and there is Anton's cock doing the same and then there is Ginger's and then it's Anton's and it is simply perfect, it is an excellent experience, it's also quientessential in regards with how he interacts with people who are fuckers and his friends and are in love with him and drunken idiots and make his dreams come true and utter nonsense while coming down his throat one after another, nonsense and his name, while he himself moans out loud, because why wouldn't he, his happy, dumb fucking mug has just been fucked on two best cocks he's ever seen and, frankly, he is spaced out with oral joy.

Because he is so junked up on junk Tim doesn't even know who it is that pours him beer and shoves a cigarette in his mouth, Tim doesn't know his own name, he is unaware who it was that made both John and Stefan look like they've just come, which they've just done and are now beaming, he's unaware why Sonja is looking so smug and why it is exactly that there is a pile of twelve limbs panting on the other side of the table, mirroring the one that he is a part of, he only knows that he's gulped down half a bottle and is smoking and is hard, he is the only one who hasn't come, and it is Ginger whose tender loving tentacle touches his hand in a wordless offer to relieve him, which Tim accepts, smirking, pushing Ginger down, because this is even better, though now there is no point in playing Anton's stupid game, because everybody knows who Ginger is going to court, but Anton tells him _waite mal_ , Anton says he wants humiliation, not for himself, he wants that fate for Tim, and both Stefan and Sonja second that and does he even need to mention John, so Tim agrees and says _you figure it out, I'm getting my cock sucked_ and they do, Stefan says _you should read something_ and Anton then says _oh_ and _Goethe_ and Tim rolls his eyes and says _are you kidding me_ and Stefan asks if he still has the German hard copy that he bought for him as a gift ten years ago and Ginger says that he indeed does - fucking Ginger - and finds the thing and brings it to the room and thus Tim reads fucking _Erlkönig_ out loud while getting his cock sucked and not by anybody, but by fucking Ginger.

Thus Tim humiliates himself.

All three of Tim's dear guests shit on his pronunciation, losing it at every line, and John chimes in, as if he would do better, which he wouldn't, because Tim's not the best, but at least he knows what those _umlauts_ mean, they aren't there to make words look cute, they might be there to personally taunt him, they and Ginger's soft warm motherfucking lips, and sure, nobody sees him, Tim doesn't either, Tim's looking at the page with poetry he's fighting his way through, but Tim feels his breath, his soft warm motherfucking breath that breaks every time Tim brushes his thumb over his lips because of course he does, there is no way he isn't doing this, so he is doing this, he's reading fucking Goethe with both his intruding thumb and his aching cock in Ginger's soft warm accomodating mouth and he is losing it at every touch of Ginger's tongue and every break of his soft warm scared breath, at the heat he feels with the back of his hand, the heat that Ginger's no doubt blazing cheeks are radiating, he doesn't make it to the verse five, _fuck it_ , he says, throws the book at Stefan, presses his hand over Ginger's nape and slaps himself in a sharp painful string of four blows all stuck together as a major treat not only to himself, because he comes like that, there's just no avoiding it, but to his dear audience as well, his guests and his obnoxious giggling _boyfriend_ all of whom find his highly productive masochism amusing.

"Fuck you," Tim spits out, catching his breath, narrowing his eyes at the bastards who are cracking up, and slumps down, staying there, spending the rest of the evening under the table sucking Ginger's blazing face, licking his own mess off his trembling lips and hugging with him on the floor forever, Ginger's tender loving tentacles wrapped tight around him, both of them falling asleep in there while the visitors generate all sorts of noises trying to discern their sleeping arrangements for the night, and, sure, discussion's needed, because there are so many options.

  
So usually Tim would pass out on the couch and would be awaken by Anton's cock stuffed in his drooling mouth with no concerns for anything, and that's how it has happened many times before, but this time Tim wakes up without anybody's cock in his drooling mouth, because it is Ginger who's passed out next to him and Ginger doesn't act like this, Ginger lets him drink and lets him smoke and lets him shove his cock in his drooling mouth, Tim amending the situation on his own, and when they finally crawl out from under the table, Tim restored to full power and Ginger pathetic, Tim is surprised by how little mercy the passing years have shown to all the members of the gang he used to pass out on couches with in Berlin, how things can change if they are left untended, he finds Sonja exiting the room where Stefan is still sleeping and it is perplexing and she shrugs, smiling at him, and tells him that John didn't end up with her, John is with Anton, which is... Well, it is an interesting development, and they both agree that they simply have to know everything about the most intriguing night those two have spent together, though usually it was not like this, usually Stefan was found by Sonja in a compromising position that Anton had left him in while making his way through the residence to fill Tim's drooling mouth and never once forgetting to pull a stupid prank on his resting buddy that would leave his then awaken buddy questioning everything he knows about himself, that's how their mornings used to start back when Denglish was Tim's native tongue.

Tim still pushes Sonja into the room John is with Anton in and she stays there, so he is not mistaken in the end, he isn't proven wrong, he's making breakfast while Stefan answers Ginger's polite biography related questions and Ginger himself asks them and plays with carrots, and Sonja leads the two fussy idiots out once both Tim's breakfast and Tim's kitchen are destroyed, they drive away to point their fingers at something, John's mere presence by a man's side making it into Anton's moronic sexual orientation theories, and this is not a permanent division, there are recombinations all six of them engage in for the next three weeks, switching places or forming the full crowd once again, but in the beginning this is how they roll, in the beginning Tim watches closely for the next two days as Ginger chats with Stefan, that very familiar _I'm gonna offer you my peanuts till the sun grows cold_ pattern clear to him, so when Stefan gets up and excuses himself for a few minutes in a bar the three of them hang out eating Ginger's peanuts Tim shakes his head at him.

"Do you like him?" Tim asks, following Stefan's back with his eyes, and Ginger nods after a period of blushing hesitation.

"Yeah," he says and nods, and Tim chuckles and shakes his head at him.

"You seem to have a type," he says, and Ginger tells him to fuck off, again while blushing, and Tim then asks if he needs a blessing and gives him one.

Ginger pushes his hand away and laughs and shakes his head.

Tim feels happy.

"Have you..." Ginger starts. "Have you slept with him?" He asks, and Tim snorts.

"Sure," Tim says with a snort. "Of course. I've known him for eighteen years."

Ginger smiles. He looks happy too.

"And..."

"Oh, he's alright," Tim says. "You'll be fine. I mean, if you developed a fancy for Anton, I would be worried. That fucker used to push me off his cock three seconds before I come for funsies." 

Tim has _a lot_ of feelings about Anton and his jokes and Ginger knows.

"Stef here used to go out with Sonja for a couple of years," Tim continues. "So he's trained. And a gentleman. You will be fine. You and your Teutonic order kink."

Then Tim is pushed, they go through their altercation, laughing, and when he is about to fuck off to let Ginger have all the tall German sound engineers his heart desires in peace Ginger says he wants more knights to be seated at the table.

"No, wait," he says. "I want you there too."

And that is...

Well, now he can.

"Hm," Tim says and looks at Ginger, Ginger bites his lips. "You sure?"

He isn't, he is Ginger, but now he can want things.

Now he wants him there too.

  
The first knight is called Horst and Tim knows him, well, not _knows_ him, but he is aware of him, he is a sound engineer in Hamburg and Tim spent fuck knows how many thousands of years in studios in Germany, so that's that, he basically knows the whole country.

Stefan, on the other hand, he really knows and knows him well, they have been friends for eighteen years and now Tim is watching Ginger sucking him, licking his cock, and Tim has no idea how it went with Horst... Okay, he has some, but no specifics, he didn't ask, he didn't need to know, it wasn't his fucking place, his place was seventh fucking heaven, and now he is sitting next to Stefan on the couch while the lady and the fussy duo are away pointing at stuff and Ginger is sitting on the floor between Stefan's long spread legs and Stefan's cock is in his mouth, or no, it is mostly out, because Ginger is just licking it, that's what he likes, his lips look soft and warm and wet and tender and they are, he's glancing up at Stefan, black, agitated eyes, and Stefan swears, which is understandable, his hand is lost in Ginger's hair, some guiding, but mostly a show of support, because he is a gentleman and Ginger's a bit anxious and Stefan is not so tranquil either, he swears and grabs Tim's hand and squeezes, stutters crumbled syllables and broken breaths, Tim looks at Ginger's tongue moving under and around the head, oral fucking caress, and it is impossible for Stefan not to moan out loud, because Ginger looks amazing sucking Stefan's cock while sitting on the floor between his legs and even Tim is losing it, he could have that any second, he fucking owns that, that is _Ginger_ , the same guy Stefan met for the first time while Tim was hanging out in Berlin with him six years ago, they've lived together in the same house for six years and now he is shaking at the sight of him sucking his good old friend who's moaning out loud while Tim is shaking in delight, in pure pleasure, in elation, Tim chuckles, squeezing Stefan's hand.

"What?" he asks, turning his head away to glance at Stefan dying on the couch right next to him.

How can he even do that when he's so transfixed.

"You're still..." Stefan stutters out. "Still no kissing?"

Tim laughs out loud and says _uh-uh_ and shakes his head, because who said he was not an asshole, _unless_ , he says and glances back at Ginger sitting there with Stefan's cock between his motherfucking lips and then again at Stefan.

"Unless..." Tim says, slumping down immediately, but pretty smooth, no hurry, he ends up on the floor, right next to Ginger, close, his body heat engulfing him, he licks the cock he's licking and his tongue, now he's also licking Stefan's cock and that's a murder with aggravating circumstances, and Stefan curses, Ginger moans out loud, eyes black, his whole body hot and shaking, Stefan's long spread legs are shaking too, Tim's hand resting on his knee, Tim's kissing Ginger, he's found an excuse for that, _kissing's fine is we're sharing cocks_ , that's what he's saying, he kisses Ginger while the head of Stefan's cock is trapped between their mouths, he withdraws, his hand is lost in Ginger's hair, he pushes him a little, forward, nudges him, he holds his chin, his mouth open, Stefan's cock is sliding in, Tim's guiding Ginger, looking up at Stefan with a smirk - how can he fucking pull that off when he is brain dead with love and arousal and hunger - and Stefan whines through gritted teeth and throws an arm over his eyes, _hey, no_ , Tim says, _look_ , Tim says, he's sucking Stefan's cock with Ginger, pushing Ginger's hair off his face, guiding his head, up and down, on and off, he's taking Stefan in himself, licking Ginger's drool off his own fingers he pushed in Ginger's mouth, off his fingers he didn't need to push in Ginger's mouth, because Ginger let them in, they're kissing while sucking Stefan, Ginger's licking Stefan's cock and Tim is licking Ginger's mouth, licking everything, _hey, no, look_ , he says, and Stefan curses him and looks, looks at Tim circling Ginger's lips Ginger's caressing his cock with, at Ginger looking up at him, sideways at Tim, red, a bit pale, feverish, amazing, beautiful and so tender.

"Christ, Tim," Stefan grits out, accent thick. "Why every time you're in the room with me I question my own sexuality?"

Tim laughs and nudges Ginger's up, crawls backwards, he's behind him now, his hands are sliding down his trembling body, freeing him off clothes.

"Because the only valid orientation is horny," Tim says, landing on the couch next to him and sucking Ginger in, swinging his arm around Stefan's shoulders, pulling him closer, he will maintain till the day he dies that if anybody is to suck cock as an exception it is exactly Ginger's awesome one they should try, so Stefan tries, licks Tim's drool off Tim's fingers and off Ginger's cock and sucks him in, Tim's hand resting on his nape, Tim looking up at Ginger, at his mouth falling open, smiling, baring his teeth and feeling buoyant, positively afloat with joy.

They kiss, Stefan and Ginger, once Stefan lets Ginger's cock out of his mouth, Ginger slumps down, half sitting in his lap, one bony knee pressing into the couch between Stefan's long spread legs, and Tim looks at them, at how Stefan's holding Ginger's head while they are kissing, fingers in his hair, at Ginger's hands on Stefan's shoulders, at his trembling, wriggling, somewhat anxious frame, listens to their whispers, to Ginger saying _I_ and _wanted_ and then _you_ and _under the table_ , blushing furiously, Stefan beaming, to Stefan then responding with _I_ and _wanted_ and then _to see you_ and _sucking Tim_ , to their soft laughs and to his own chuckle, he likes what he is hearing, he's especially in love with Ginger's short _okay_ , Ginger is back at sitting on the floor, but now he's between Tim's legs spread wide, Tim's thumb between his lips, Tim's cock as well, he's sucking Tim and looking up at Stefan, looking up at Tim, Tim stretches his lips, he pulls at them, his thumb hooked inside his mouth, Tim's smiling like a moron, he is spaced out, and Stefan stares at Ginger and jerks off, jerks off about Ginger sucking Tim, _at_ Ginger sucking Tim, Tim quickly licks his fingers and puts them around Stefan's cock, slaps his hand away, and brief seconds later Ginger's hand is also there, sliding up and down, scared and so tender, and now they are jerking Stefan off while Stefan stares at Tim's cock in Ginger's mouth, Stefan can't look away and Tim is rocking up his hips, thrusting gently, Ginger letting him, his fingers trembling under Tim's, Tim's fingers circling the head of Stefan's cock both of them are touching.

How does it happen that they all don't come right there on that fucking couch is a mystery to Tim.

How do they even make it to the bedroom.

  
They manage, sit naked on the bed, and there, in the bedroom, it's Ginger who has to cope with things, Tim hasn't seen how it was with Horst, he knows it was hard and he also knows why, but it was possible, and this time Ginger gets through the talking too, he says _I just_ , says _I want you to fuck me_ , says _but_ , says _I have_ , says _some problems_ , _it's a bit hard for me_ , he says and Stefan listens, aroused and concerned, his hand on Ginger's thigh, _I really want you to, I really do_ , Ginger says, _but it's just_ , he says, _I get too nervous sometimes_ , Ginger says and Stefan bites his lips, _so_ , Ginger goes on, _so I might need you to_ , he says, _to stop_ , he says, _like_ , he says, _to slow down_ , Ginger says, _is that okay_ , he asks, and Stefan says _of course, don't worry, it's alright, I want you_ and then they kiss, but while they were talking Tim was praying, silent as a stone and frozen as a chunk of ice, his body was a temple built to appease the ancient gods who, it seems, do have mercy if they get enough threesomes in return.

Then Ginger says it is okay if Stefan stretches him, that he wants that, then Ginger's lying on his back, legs spread, knees bent, hands trembling, and Stefan sits next to him and fingers him, slowly stretching him, careful and smiling and dying just a bit, then Ginger's hands shake, first on the sheets, then on the sheets and on Stefan's cock, then on Stefan's cock and under Stefan's lips, Stefan kissing them, Stefan shudders while Ginger caresses his cock, fingers scared, and Tim's fingers are like metal rods on his face, electrical currents running through them, Tim is sitting there on the bed with them, hand pressed over his mouth and another in a fist, he has confined his teeth, his poisonous missiles, his words that work as weapons, they aren't needed and he can have that, can have _Ginger_ any time he wants, but it is not about him, it is about what Ginger wants to have, what he _can_ have, it fucking mustn't become about him, he's had enough, more than enough - he hasn't had enough, because he never can, but - he's simply sitting there silent, looking at them smiling at each other, biting down tears, blood, bile, venom and smiling too under his hand pressed tight over his mouth, and luckily, praise be on that blind woman with the horn of plenty in her hands or, rather, fuck the woman, praise be on Ginger lying there with eyes gone black and Stefan's cock under his tentative, timid fingers, luckily nobody pays any attention or any fucking tributes to him.

Then... 

Shit, then all the Olympians and fucking Nereids and Naiads and Satyrs too surely must be jerking off, because things spiral out of all constraints, break through the boundaries and morph into something new, create a freshly formed pile of twelve limbs, then Ginger's lying on his back, his hand trembling in Tim's hand, he's glancing sideways at Tim with a smile and moans with an open mouth looking up at Stefan, and Stefan's fucking him to a somewhat sacramental rhythm, muttering something that sounds very much like verses from romantic ballads that have nothing to do with riding horses through the night, that just make Ginger blush even though he doesn't understand a word. Neither does Tim, not really, he is not at his most intelligent right now, he's blinking and fingers of his busy hand are hooked inside his hole, he's lying there on his side holding Ginger's hand and watching him vibrating on Stefan's cock, he's resonating with him, smiling at him and digging his fingers deep into his own meat, fucking himself on them to a rhythm that is positively desecrating, and he is so dumbfounded by the sight and by the touch that he loses his ability to comprehend things that are being said, he simply stares at Stefan fucking Ginger on his back while holding both his feet up in the air in his hands, rubbing them gently, running his fingers over Ginger's soles as if he isn't a techno sound engineer, but a fucking sculptor, one that's way too passionate about his job at that, he's putting his poetic lips on Ginger's toes, planting soft kisses on them, Ginger's lips quivering, parted, mouth falling open, and surely he must have opened it before, he must have said something, Stefan didn't end up worshipping his feet just because, he must have simply touched them accidentally, pulling Ginger's legs up and apart to enter him, and Ginger must have moaned, shivered and gone red like he always fucking does, and Stefan must have noticed, must have asked him if he's okay in that velvety, affectionate tone of voice he's now reciting poems in, and Ginger, fuck, Ginger must have said something in response, something about his ludicrous, responsive, overly sensitive feet, he might have even asked something of Stefan, he, he fucking could, something like _can you keep holding me like that_ , but with those breathless, vulnerable, delicious pauses that he makes while speaking when his eyes go black and his face goes red, and Stefan must have said _of course_ and then continued, asked if Ginger wanted him to rub his soles or to kiss his toes or something like it, because he'd gladly do it if Ginger wants, because he wants him to feel good, he wants him, he's so hot, amazing and then something German, and Ginger, Jesus fucking Christ, Ginger must have almost sobbed it out, but with no tears, with a weak smile on his parted lips, that yes, he does, and _Stefan_ and _fuck_ and _I_ and _please_ and _if_ and _you_ and _could_ and _oh my god_ and so, so many breaks and pauses, he must have whispered all of that and more, which is why Stefan is fucking him now while holding him by his feet and taking his toes in his mouth one by one, and Tim - is he really still around here - Tim must have heard every word they said, he's so close to them, after all, he's holding Ginger's hand while Stefan's fucking him and he's fingering himself, he must have seen Ginger's feverish, red and white, dumb fucking face he hallows, because Ginger must have turned it towards him before answering Stefan's last question, before telling him that yes, he wants him to do all of that if he wants to do it and if he wants him, his sweaty, trembling, scared fucking fingers must have turned into squid goo under Tim's before he uttered those words with so many breaks and pauses between them, Tim must have been a witness to all of that, must have choked on his breath hearing and seeing that, must have lost his mind, must have turned into shark plutonium, he must have, but he's not sure, not sure he's even fully there, he simply fucks himself, sharp and hectic, face haunted, and stares at Ginger getting fucked by Stefan whose last meal is Ginger's feet because he's dying there, Tim simply looks at them, he looks at Ginger as if he _must_ be looking at him, because he must be blessed with him.

Then Ginger becomes a part of the masturbating pantheon, he says that he's going to come, says that as if he's asking if he could, and Tim grits his teeth, and Stefan says something in German, something sweet and stupid, something like _mein Schatz_ , which is... Well, if he tried that on Tim, Tim would laugh his ass Stefan would be pounding off and put duct tape on his mouth next time they fuck and come into possession of it with Anton's assistance, but Stefan's smart enough not to do that and also they've been friends for eighteen years and it kind of works with Ginger, it kind of suits this slightly bizarre and fetishistic, highly erotic, fucking amazing threesome they are having, so Stefan says his stupid things and Ginger moans and Tim doesn't laugh, Tim simply stares at Ginger, stunned, in trance, he watches him lift his trembling hand that Tim's not holding and put the thumb between his parted lips, Tim looks at Ginger sucking it, dropping the hand, wrapping it around his cock and drawing circles on the head, all of that while locking eyes with Stefan who is sucking on his toes, and this disposition stays the same when Ginger comes brief seconds later, and what is different is that Ginger's grip around Tim's helping hand goes tight and Ginger's hole around Stefan's cock goes tight and Tim's whole body goes tight and dense, imploding, and also all three of them make sounds so loud they simply have to reach the summit of the sacred mountain Tim's ancient gods are beating off on.

"Shit," Tim says, getting up and pushing Stefan to take his place when Ginger stops convulsing for supernal beings' entertainment. "Lie down."

He pulls the condom off his cock, approaching the speed of light in his frantic movements, spits in his palm and lubes it up and gets on top of Stefan, and Stefan says something like _wait_ and _syphilis_ and Tim barks out _fuck off_ and _gangrene_ and goes down on Stefan's cock in one swift motion like a reckless, frenzied, scatterbrained fish he is.

"Shut up," he says and starts jumping, because a cock inside his hole inspires him to act like an even bigger lunatic. "Kiss him and come in my fucking ass."

The way he says that makes it sound more like there was _you will_ before both the verbs and there kind of was, because Tim has acquired verbal magic since the last time they met with Stefan and Stefan does exactly what he's told him to and does it gladly, because why wouldn't he, that's what he wants, to kiss with Ginger while Ginger holds his head with both his tentacles and to come, and Tim's fucking ass is not only a highly suitable reservoir for Stefan's come, it's also a vessel Stefan's always been rather fond of coming in, be it on his own or paired up with another pal of Tim's and also of Stefan's - yeah, with Anton - after they spend at least an hour being drunk and stupid and trying to stand on their inebriated heads, so things progress just like Tim expects them to, he doesn't even need to keep an eye on them, he shuts his eyes and bares his teeth and fucks himself on Stefan's cock in earnest, while Stefan's moaning into Ginger's mouth, and at the end of his short, rapid sprint he's welcomed with a bucket full of junk thrown up his rectum because he is the winner.

The way Tim then receives his prize has to be right up the alley of those oversexed deities that keep an eye on him.

He sits there shaking for a while, Stefan's gracious juices leaking out of him, an ultra-modern pair of kissing bastards parting before his blurry eyes, and then Stefan shifts, sitting up, and through the haze of having just seen all world's wonders and then having been fucked and quite ferociously at that - which is to his own credit, because Stefan is a gentleman - through the mist of his polluted vision Stefan's fingers arrive into his mouth.

"Mein Ehrenmann," Tim mutters, eagerly accepting them inside, starting to suck on them and to apply his own pliers to his own so far neglected cock, amusing Stefan with his masochism again, though this time Stefan isn't chuckling, the look on his face is actually that of approval, because Tim's hole is not the only orifice Stefan fancied coming in and Anton was not the only German man who put his cock in Tim's drooling mouth, by far, and Stefan, of course, has never shoved it in Tim's trap while Tim was sleeping, but he did so every time Tim asked him to, he was that noble and that horny for him that it might have been a special type of sexuality, so Stefan isn't snickering at Tim's propensity to torture the living shit out of his cock, he's simply lending him his fingers for which Tim's grateful, but the person he is the most indebted to is Ginger.

Ginger slides down, motions fluid, and rests his head on Stefan's stomach right next to Tim's distorted cock, and it is his soft, warm, tender fucking lips and his tongue he slowly drags around the head, moving it in devoted circles while looking up at Tim, that push Tim over the edge, and it is his soft, warm, tender fucking lips and his tongue that Tim comes on, growling around Stefan's fingers trapped between his lips and fondled by his tongue.

  
"I'm sensing double penetration," Tim says, falling next to a pile of eight limbs after his highly agreeable orgasm is over, and his premonition is twice more accurate than he fully expects it to be.

  
So a few days later he's sensing two gentle cocks inside his hole, Stefan getting his proudly erect burial mound underneath him, Ginger breathing nonsense into his ear and holding him, and this experience is... mannerly, up to a point where it is chivalrous, especially around the seconds when Tim comes like a motherfucker thanks to two honorable idiots who wouldn't be doing anything like what they are doing were it not for Tim, but what occurs is that Ginger's holding him, like, really holding him, like Tim usually holds him, by both his arms and tight, constricting, inconsiderate on purpose, what occurs is that Stefan's clawing him, digging his fingernails into the soft skin under the tip of his cock while he's shaking on their two shafts, ready to disintegrate after a final push, which comes with the help of their hands and Tim comes too, and then around those seconds that arrive past this point the actions of his partners are also very much obliging, they just keep fucking him, disregarding the anal discomfort he's fully feeling being impaled and quite actively on two moving cocks and having come on them moments earlier, he's simply dangling there, suspended in thin air by his own efforts to stay still and be permissive and accepting, welcoming, indulgent, to stay where he was, sweaty, suffering post-orgasmic shock, torn into fragments, to let them fuck him the way they want to for as long as they do, which they do, they keep rolling their hips in a concordant rhythm until they come, creating waves, soft, delicate tropical waves passing their tongues over the particles of sand the beach consists of, and it is more than enough to make him float there, rocking on their cocks as if he is just a paper boat caught between the motions, which he is, caressed by their hands, as if he is the particles of sand and shells and pebbles, which he also is, filled by both their cocks and then both their junk, as if a few days earlier he personally drove Stefan to a fucking clinic for them to confirm that nobody is suffering from any pox or something and through that earned himself delightfully bare cocks up his ass without any worries, which he most definitely did. And when they empty their delightfully bare cocks in his delightfully stretched ass he spends millenia letting the fluids leak out of him, hovering between them, both bastards muttering and panting, until he is pulled down and held and fucking cuddled, because he is submerged so deep and cannot show any resistance, and yes, he might swear and display contempt, but it is not like he minds, not in the slightest, of course he doesn't, not at all.

What he also doesn't mind at all and endorses - if he's completely honest, he's the one who is soliciting, it's his petition, he has an itch now that he has come on two cocks and had his ass inundated, he wants to live through that incident again and preferrably forever, so he appeals to those who might be interested in penetrating him until he vanishes, dematerializing - is another double penetration exercise that he has not predicted, but had a hand in organizing, and this one is nasty. Because this time there are no knights and no marine animals fucking him, this time there are only assholes present in the room, this time it's John and Anton who clobber him, but with their cocks. Which he's more than happy to allow them, but there is more, there is him and there're his hands that are tied behind his back, and that's a whole another story, because it isn't rope they are tied with, it isn't anything... well, sane, they're tied with what _Anton_ finds cut out for the occasion and easy to obtain, and what he finds befitting and practical is an elastic band he pulls out of his own track pants with a weird touch of familiarity with the action, while John observes this spectacle which he thinks is comedy and Tim loses his ability to see, his dumbstruck eyeballs bursting at the sight. Anyway, there is him and his accomodating hands that are tied behind his back and there're two cocks inside his hole, and the story of them getting there is also a bit of a fucking saga, because his hands are tied and it's his hands and his hands only that are accomodating in that room, because neither of the chortling bastards even attempt to make his task easier for him, because they fucking chortle and tease him, dodge him, deny him their cocks they tell him to hop onto on his own if he wants them so much, which he fucking does, so he's already at a disadvantage and it takes forever and dynasties replace one another while he's trying to screw himself on two wriggling cocks of two flinching bastards. But he is nothing if not persistent and persuasive, he climbs the fucking Everest of phalluses, having in the end scrounged some aid from his fucking _enemies_ through his own obscene floundering, and then he's there, at the summit, struggling for breath in the death zone, surrounded by the scarce molecules of air, and nobody is applauding him, he doesn't even get a push that sends him down, the giggling bastards tell him to start moving without bothering to stop the snickering, they tell him he can come, but that's not the goal here, so they won't be touching him or anything like that and also just their extraordinary cocks should be enough to make him lose his mind, because wasn't that what he himself has claimed, and he doesn't understand who tells him what, not only because they are laughing fucking donkeys and interrupt each other and spew out gibberish because they are either dumb or dumb and German, but also because they kind of unite against him, so he thinks about disruptive influence and calls them fucking monsters, but the fucking monsters tell him to shut up and service their cocks even one of which should make him _ekstatisch_ \- okay, that's definitely Anton's phrase - and that is true, he is ecstatic. He's in raptures, but he wouldn't mind some graces, some more undoing, he without any doubt would love John to pull his hair while he forces himself on their cocks and he says so when John asks him, fingers tugging lightly at the mess on top of his head, he certainly would glorify Anton were he to wring his cock and make it into a mess of flesh and he says so when Anton drags his ragged fingernail over the tip, scratching him, he wouldn't mind anything like that all, he eagerly agrees and begs with passion, but those weren't offers, that was taunting, because John laughs into his ear, his breath tickling his shaved nape, says _nope_ , says _I'm not doing that_ , says _I don't care what you want_ , because Anton spits chuckles in his face and rests his hands above his head, relaxing, says _nope_ , says _I'm not touching your perverted knob_ , says _sodomites like you only get to be a hole for dicks of real men_ , really fucking says that, looking smug, geniunely fucking proud of himself. 

_Sadistic halfwits_ , Tim thinks with fondness and does what he does best, does so well he should be given prizes, he just fucks himself on cocks he's devoted to, showing his adoration with his every move, sanctioning the nasty treatment, saluting it and seeking it, and he doesn't laugh last, he simply can't when he is done, too fucked out and exhausted and receding from view lying there on the floor, but he comes while swinging there like a finger puppet and it's not a mundane event, there is no yawning or leaving early or secretly solving puzzles during the play, it is spectacular, because he has talent, expertise and motivation, he has been _challenged_. That's why when he comes swinging like a pornographic finger puppet on two extraordinary cocks the moronic owners of his kernels whine and growl, cursing him and his ancestors, though he can make a bet he shares many of them with the idiots themselves and in not such a distant past, they forget their relaxed postures and their _it's not my problem_ attitude, they grab him, John by his hair and Anton by his shoulders, grab and pull him, down and apart, getting pulled towards him by the momentum too, John pressed with his sweaty chest to his back he arches and hissing and Anton straining his abdomen, lifted off the bed by the impetus to finish him and in him, right up his more than ready rectum, because that bastard's never cared about any plagues and needed no convincing. That's why after Tim comes swinging like a rumba shaker he spends utterly enchanting moments being split apart and spewing out the flux of lewd, carefully designed, crafted nonsense, catering to both successfully provoked bastards, even though the specifics of their appetence for Tim and of their appreciation of what he was doing differ and not insubstantially. But he manages like a Viking Age court poet he most definitely isn't, speaking in no Old Norse and mentioning no monarchs, he mostly talks about juices which are about to be shot up his ass and for which he'd be so grateful he'd practically turn into a sculpture bowing its head and a faggoty one at that, he adds a bit about competing, inciting hurry, he floods the room with words of his welcoming surrender to strong and potent and to those who are due, he talks about cocks he's being shoved onto, split in half, he asks the owners to do exactly that to him, reasons that it is exactly what should be done to him and achieves remarkable results, so it is not only his own tales that amuse him, it is also the endeavours they inspire. 

He lives through amazing seconds of being fucked into oblivion in rough, harsh, cutting thrusts inside him, of being held in place, which is to be a vessel carrying come and cocks, of being incessant in his speeches, of being told to shut the fuck up and thinking _ha, right_ , of being the smartest asshole in the room, as well as the most stretched one, and when he feels those fulfilling juices starting to leak out of him, while those who spilled them fall down on the bed around him, he rolls off onto the floor, throwing his free to be thrown broken limbs wide and one hundred percent sure there're two dead bodies less than a meter above him mirroring his position perfectly.

Upon resurrection and on his way to the beer storage one of the zombies loses his pants all of a sudden in the doorway, tripping like a complete butthead, and that's when Tim is the one who laughs.

  
Apart from those instances there're others when he jumps on cocks and also there're situations when penetrative circumstances vary and it is Sonja who is getting a taste of four cocks while his snout is merging with her pussy and his tongue with her clit specifically, Tim licking up her nectar, and in addition there is that highly entertaining and productive day when all six of them try standing on their heads after many hours of alcohol consumption and a dare he aims at John because John is sober, and that day is marked by an orgy Tim's ancient gods are jealous of and no doubt appeased by, to the level of post-ejaculation glee, an orgy that takes place at John's house, on one of his enormous beds, it's Stefan who instigates it and it's also John, Stefan's friendly chat with Sonja and with Ginger gradually transforms into even more congenial undressing with some help from kissing, and John's neverending flirting with people in whose track pants he's been as often as to guitar shops - this time it's with Anton - kind of suddenly becomes a striptease session too, because Anton simply grabs him and starts ordering him around, so John giggles, making Anton's rude limelight his residence, so while Tim smokes cigarettes, leaning on the table and observing his intoxicated flock, things progress in interesting directions, and when Tim quits smoking and decides to join in by pushing his cock between John and Ginger's kissing faces, Anton is already fucking John in earnest, staring at his hole and looking positively obsessed with what he sees, and Stefan is already letting Sonja ride him, multitasking

\---  
lip balm

soap

tissues

garbage bags

fuck the toothpaste

condoms

bleu cheese

mop

where do I get mops?

yeast

seriously, where do I get mops?

vinegar

call Brian

shit pills

olives

fucking popsicles for John  
\---

rubbing her clit Tim licked for like five days straight as a complement to his morning coffee and also sucking Ginger's cock that is exceptionally deserving of such treatment and will be promoted by Tim to everyone who has a mouth till the day he dies, and Tim almost dies that day, he pushes John and Ginger's mouths onto his cock at the same time, making them kiss while blowing him, watching their tongues curl around each other and around the head, combing their hair and not allowing them to close their eyes, and then he stops doing that, even though he hasn't yet released his load, he sees that both of them are nearing their climax, just as his dear old friends who came to visit him, and he can't pass the opportunity to look at them getting ruined simultaneously, to have this double penetration right through his heart, to take a mental picture of their perfect, broken faces to store it in his memory forever as a diptych, to be with them when they ascend, so he holds both the kissing moaning stupid bastards being driven to the edge by two others, who can't stop producing German word roots all stuck together - Sonja's generating them instead of Stefan, because Stefan's oral cavity is really full - he holds both John and Ginger's jaws, pulling their mouths open, staring point blank at them, and then he says _give it to me_ and they do, so, even though he doesn't die, even though instead he just gets to rest on the floor after his own highly entertaining and moderately masochistic orgasm, even though he survives that day, he surely could have ended up in a coffin, and a shut and locked one at that, because he is shattered, blissful pieces, and somewhere close to the finale of three weeks they spend doing fuck combinatorics Anton hustles him into his pagan temple room one afternoon which is their morning and expresses his confusion and resentment and sincere indignation in perplexed bursts of phonemes into his ear, telling him that last night John Put His Fingers In His Ass while sucking him and asking him what even is that and how can that be and what should he make of it and what's the implications and so on, all the big questions, and that is resolved by Tim proposing an even more bewildering arrangement, that happening only after he manages to stop hiccupping, which is hard, because not only Anton tells him all of that, he also says Tim has no compassion when Tim starts crying after having laughed so much, but then what was meant to happen happens and Tim eats Anton's offended ass out, standing on his knees, face pressed between his cheeks and grinning, while Anton berates his voodoo artifacts collection displayed on the table he's leaning on and calls him crazy and a fucker and a faggot - and a _schwul_ \- and then stops producing gibberish and just grumbles, trying to stop fucking himself on Tim's tongue while Tim wraps both his hands around his cock as if he's making _currywurst_ \- it is exactly what he makes that evening - and then stops trying and comes in both Tim's palms while jumping on his tongue, and then, when three weeks run out, Tim's tongue again has to visit so many mouths, while his arms - and his other, more perverted body parts - respond to bear hugs, and to learn how to form proper English syllables again, because there have been dear guests at his house for three weeks and now - for now - they are gone.

  
"I've got a letter from him," Ginger says with a soft smile several months later. "Do you wanna read it?"

  
It is at a sort of business meeting or a party or whatever the fuck it is that Tim's European friends who insist he must come to this event organize that Ginger meets him. Ginger goes with him too to this business party among people who pull at strings and turn the knobs at the studios, because there is a sort of lecture or a discussion or, which is more likely, a fucking dispute over those strings and knobs and Ginger's absolutely crazy for that kind of content, and also there is booze and there are drugs and Tim's European friends and Tim's new friends and Tim himself, so of course they go together. 

They don't stay together through the whole evening, obviously, becase there're Tim's European friends and Tim's new friends and all of them want things from him for which they'll later thank him and also because Ginger too makes friends. Tim sees him in the company of four or five people who look German, engaged in a lively conversation with them just like Tim himself is, sitting there surrounded by four or five people who are German without any questions. Some time after that Ginger finds him amidst the invasion and they sample booze and drugs with Tim's friends, both old and new, and Ginger smiles that soft smile that appears on his lips six full months later when he shows Tim the letter, that soft smile that Tim has seen, has missed, has misinterpreted, has understood, has grown accustomed to, has had a painful love affair with. Tim kind of gets a false impression of it that time, because it's there on Ginger's lips not only for him, but his confusion doesn't last forever, because then, when a couple more hours have passed, Ginger finds him again and tells him that he's been invited to another party and asks him if that's okay and says he'll get home on his own when Tim rolls his eyes at him and asks if it's that other German crowd he's going to be raving it up with and Ginger nods and smiles and then leaves.

And that is not when Tim's misconception of his facial behaviour is corrected.

It's in the morning, when Ginger wakes up his rotten corpse with the sounds of the fridge being opened and things falling on the floor, when Tim scoops himself off the bed and finds that disgusting grass juice Ginger has been looking for and drinks it too, washing down the piece of cheese he salvages from between Ginger's feet Ginger's swaying on, looking beaten.

"Fun night?" Tim asks, chuckling, glancing at his wrinkled face, and munches on a lonely chicken nugget he locates behind the celery.

Ginger laughs, somewhat shy.

Tim digs a cherry tomato out of the bag and offers it to him.

Ginger takes it. Ginger blushes a little.

"What?" Tim asks, narrowing his eyes at him while he chews, swallowing hard.

"I..." Ginger starts.

"Uh-huh?" Tim says, going through the shelves in search of something his stomach will approve of.

"We kissed," Ginger says.

"What?" Tim asks again, stopping with his fridge investigation and turning to Ginger, slowly remembering the group of Germans he left with. "All of you? Tell me more."

Ginger blushes a lot.

"No! No. I... There was a guy. And we... We went to his hotel. After the party. And we... We kissed."

"Hm," Tim says, going back to scavenging. "Once?"

"N-no... No."

"Hm," Tim nods, shoving the carrots out of the way. "Just kissed?"

"Uh... Yeah."

Tim turns to Ginger again and looks him up and down.

"When did you leave that party?"

"At... Donno, like at four. Maybe a bit earlier. Why?"

Tim glances at the clock on the wall. The clock shows it's 10:08.

"Wow," he says. "So like what, almost five hours of kissing? You must be fully charged right now."

Ginger puffs out air, timid and frustrated, his eyes moving away from Tim only to get locked on him again.

"We also talked," he says.

"Ah," Tim says. "Alright. But like still, five hours of chitchat and kissing? I mean, you've just come home, right?"

Ginger shifts on his feet and nods.

"Yeah."

"Great," Tim says, smiling and nodding too. "So are my lips safe from asexual assaults or do you need to fill your kissing tank some more?"

"Fuck off," Ginger says, pushing him.

"Sure," Tim chuckles. "Come on, make up your mind. Are we eating or are we sleeping? I know just the guy who can help us with the first option."

"I..." Ginger starts, exhales, smiles. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, I'm hungry."

"Okay," Tim says and makes them bullshit out of celery, beans and a single slice of cheese, hoping nobody will ever ask him about it, and when they make it to the bed a bit later Ginger wraps his arms around him, reaching for the refueling gun, and Tim shoves a pillow corner in his mouth and says _sleep, you loyal motherfucker_ and Ginger does and Tim does too.

  
In the afternoon that is their second morning Ginger's sitting there in the kitchen with him, a carrot in his hand, and Tim is stuffing yellow ball peppers with celery and beans and cheese, which is what he also is going to be doing at least once a week for the next three months, and they both squint at the sun coming through the window when it hits their eyes.

"Uhm..." Ginger says, putting the masticated carrot on the table. "He invited me on a date."

Tim wipes his running nose with the back of his hand and glances at him over his shoulder, shoving yet another spoonfull of his hangover mixture into the pepper.

"Oh," he says. "When?"

"Tomorrow. In the evening."

"Like a dinner?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna go?" Tim asks, placing the ready to burst pepper into the pot between its other chubby comrades. 

Ginger grazes his shaved nape with his glance.

Tim feels it tingling on his skin. Tim waits.

"I... Yeah."

Tim nods, rubbing his shaved nape, and starts looking through the spices.

"What does he do?" he asks, spraying the peppers with oil.

"Uhm. He's a... A sound engineer."

"German, right?"

"Yeah. From Hamburg."

"Hm," Tim says, putting the lid on the pot and turning around, leaning on the table and reaching for his cigarettes. "Is he that... Salt and pepper and a leather jacket that is like only two years younger than John?"

Ginger looks away and takes the carrot in his hands again. He nods.

"Yeah."

"Nice," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "I've always loved me a proper German sound engineer. Calm, polite and never fails to cheer you up. And never gets laid enough," he smirks, pulling the carrot out of Ginger's hands and shoving a cigarette between his fingers. "Have you decided where you're gonna go?"

Ginger looks up at him, opening his mouth as if he is a fish left to yawn in the sink, and turns away again, bringing the cigarette to his lips.

"No," he shakes his head.

"Hm," Tim says, following the cloud of smoke he exhales with his eyes. "How about that fusion place Jules took me to? You know, the one near that cinema they never lets us enter."

"Uh..." Ginger says. "Uhm, yeah. I..."

"It's good. Kind of too fancy for my taste, but since you're going on a _date._.."

"I..." Ginger says and takes another drag. "I don't know. I'll ask him. Thanks."

"No problem," Tim says, taking the cigarette away from him. "So this culinary magnificence will be ready in like forty minutes." He nods at the pot, finishing the smoke and putting it out. "Wanna go sit on the couch holding hands?"

  
The next day Ginger leaves in the evening, but not before standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the floor and fumbling with the car keys.

"Tim, I uh..." he says.

"Yeah?" Tim asks, looking at him over the shoulder from his computer.

"I'm... I'm gonna go."

"Uh-huh," Tim says, checking the clock on the wall, and then smirks as nasty a smirk as he can pull off and gives Ginger a salute. "Good luck."

Ginger shifts on his feet for a few more seconds and then shoves the car keys in his pocket.

"Okay," he says. "I uh... Okay. Bye then."

"Bye-bye," Tim says and exhales, hearing the front door being closed, and lights up a smoke, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his lower jaw.

Much later he rubs at both his wooden shoulders, getting up and placing a hand over his ready to burst bladder, temporarily abandoning the songs he's been smearing in feces as his pro bono job, and glances at the clock again.

The clock shows it is 3:44 a.m.

The clock shows it is 3:44 a.m., and Ginger left at 6:30, precise fucker, so ninety minutes of traffic jams and waiters, then up to three hours of questioning on the topics of childhood and Christmas, then another drive and a hotel room and up to three hours of kissing, but if he is doing the maths correctly - and he is doing maths while taking a leak that lasts forever and smiling like a blissed out moron - then somebody must be fucking.

Tim calls Brian at 5 a.m., who in turn calls him names, self-important fucker, because no time is a good time for calling him, and stays on the phone with him till 7: 17, and full twenty minutes of those two hours with change are also devoted to philanthropy, assistance and relief.

Ginger crawls in bed with him when the clock shows Tim's face is melting on the pillow, which it is, he says _sorry_ and _it's just me_ and _do you want to drink_ and _yeah, I have some_ and Tim accepts the things he puts in his mouth with immense gratitude and closed eyes and hugs him, letting go of the smoke, and mumbles.

"You alone?" he says. 

"I thought maybe you'd bring your suitor home," he says.

"You know, was hoping for a threesome," he says.

Then Ginger smothers him with the pillow he's been drooling on.

  
He learns that the guy's called Horst. 

Ginger goes on dates with Horst and stays with him till morning.

A thought crosses Tim's mind and he rubs his forehead and he asks if Ginger said that Horst was from Hamburg and Ginger says that yes, he did.

"I think I know him," Tim says, chuckling.

How could I vote no, when the only thing I say I understand is the art of love

Ginger crawls in bed with him in the morning.

Ginger crawls in bed with Horst in the evening, because Tim says he'll just fuck off and go pester John or something, because Ginger finally decides to bring him home.

Ginger blinks at him. 

Opens and closes his mouth while looking at him. At the floor.

Horst's here till the 21st.

Ginger has that soft smile on his lips when he doesn't know Tim's looking at him.

When he knows too, of course, but that's old news.

Tim has an idiotic smile on his lips when he's looking at his own piss at 5 a.m.

Tim has a perfect poker face when he knows Ginger's looking at him.

  
Tim never gives Ginger what he tries to ask of him.

  
It's not fucking his to give.

  
It wasn't yours to take, you---

  
It's almost at 11 when Ginger comes back home one of those days, and Tim's still up, Tim's lying on the floor, surrounded by balls of crumpled paper, Tim's both stoned and high and also he thinks he's creative - it's all poetic discharge when he checks the verses he has written later - Tim greets Ginger cheerfully when he comes back almost at 11 and then Ginger spends like forty fucking minutes in the bathroom, as if he is a yellow ball pepper stuffed with celery and beans and cheese being cooked by Tim - after three months of making those Tim dumps the beans and stuffs the squids with celery and peppers and with cheese and that's another hit of his - and like forty more constantly shifting on the bed, picking things up and putting them down, Tim hearing the little noises from the bedroom, lying on the floor next to the couch, a pure genius with his fly unzipped, and when Tim enters the bedroom too, looking for their copy of the On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection that is printed in such a pesky font they barely managed to read it four years ago while sitting on the train and mostly pointed their fingers at the beaks and skulls in the illustrations, when Tim enters the bedroom looking for the book because he needs a reference and needs it now, he finds Ginger sitting on the bed hugging his knees with closed eyes.

Tim stops in his tracks.

"Hey," he says. "What's up?"

And it is then when Ginger looks up at him and bites his lips and opens and closes his mouth as if he's yawning in the sink and goes pale and looks so scared, it's then when he almost brings Tim down on his knees.

Tim would've gone down on his knees without hesitation, but Ginger manages to speak before he does.

"We," he says. "We fucked."

Tim feels all oxygen being kicked out of him from behind. A warhead meets the target, breaking his spine.

"Oh," he says, and he tries to pull off that poker face, that filthy smirking mug of an obnoxious bastard he's been wearing to avoid temptation to make signs with his hands, crosses, candles, icons, to avoid spraying the dish with holy fucking water, he tries to react in that nonchalant way, but fails, and his early morning piss smile splits his snout in half and it is huge and he can't contain it. 

He shakes with it and takes a step forward while he still can, while he's still standing, because he's falling, and Ginger speaks again.

"Tim," he says and starts crying. "Tim, we fucked."

Tim trips, crumbling down, and falls on his butt right next to him. Tim hugs him.

"Hey," he says and hugs him. "Ginj."

Where has all his fucking eloquence run off.

"I... I uh..." Ginger says, voice broken, Tim's hands on his shoulders jumping up and down with every tremor. "I asked him."

Tim hugs him.

"And I," Ginger says. "I told him... That..." 

His broken voice hurts Tim's ears.

"That, you know, I might get... That I could... Could freak out."

His broken voice hurts everything of Tim's. Tim hugs him.

"And he," Ginger says. "He... Oh fuck. He agreed."

Tim tries not to squall through gritted teeth. Through that enormous smile that is ripping him in half.

"Tim, he agreed," Ginger says.

Tim fails. Tim presses his bleeding lips to Ginger's temple.

"Of course he fucking did," he says.

Ginger lets out a squall and shakes.

"And he fucked me," he says. "And it was... I..."

 _How am I still alive_ , Tim thinks and smiles, smiles, smiles, crying.

Indeed.

"You know, I..." Ginger says. "Well... And I thought that. Maybe..."

He isn't really. He is kind of dead. Ascending.

"That maybe I should think of," Ginger says, and Tim dies on the spot, in all respects.

"No," he says.

"Of you," Ginger says. "Of what you..."

"No."

"Of what you do," Ginger says. "But..."

Tim hugs him and listens, pressing his lips to his temple.

"But I didn't," Ginger says. "I just... He stopped and asked me... If I was okay."

 _Of course he fucking did_ , Tim thinks.

"And he talked to me," Ginger says. "And he... And I... I calmed down."

Tim hugs him, smearing his temple with his blood.

"And he fucked me," Ginger says. "And... Fuck. Fuck. It was okay."

Tim bleeds out.

"Tim, it was okay, you know," Ginger says. "I... I liked it. It was... Really nice."

Tim bleeds out too.

Ginger shifts, finding his hand with his own, and looks at him, and Tim squeezes his sweaty frightened fingers and pushes the hair off his face, tucking it behind his ears and wiping off his temple.

Ginger looks at him and cries.

"I..." he says, letting out the blood. "Fuck, Tim. I didn't... I didn't think I could."

Tim looks at him and laughs, laughs, laughs.

Tim hugs him, pulls him closer, presses his bloody fingers into the bones of his pathetic skull. And pulls them out.

"Of course you fucking can," he whispers, pressing his bloody lips to his temple. "You idiot. Of course you can."

  
I know virtually nothing, except a certain small subject – love, although on this subject, I'm thought to be amazing, better than anyone else, past or present

  
Tim reads the letter, bending over Ginger's shoulder.

  
A bit later, that same day, Ginger tells him all about how it was with Horst. 

How they did kiss for almost five fucking hours. 

How he sat naked in his lap and they jerked each other off. How Horst kissed his neck, playing with his hair. How they tried each other's come.

How he sucked Horst off, well, not really, he just licked his cock for like forty minutes, he licked the very tip for ten more, jerking him off and bumping into his own lips and licking up what he couldn't swallow after Horst had come, and Tim says that fuck this _not really_ shit, it doesn't matter if it counts as a real blowjob, it's fucking hot.

How Horst jerked him off afterwards, smearing spit over the tip of his cock. How he jerked up his hips, pushing into the touch.

How he came in Horst's mouth lying on his back, trying not to jerk up his hips and failing. 

How the next time Horst sucked him he didn't close his face with his hands while coming.

How one day, not long before Horst went back to Europe, not long after that fucking talk they had at around half past twelve Tim is not sure was humanly possible to survive, how one day they fucked, how he was on top of Horst, with his back pressed to his salt and pepper colored chest, how he moved, leaning on his shoulder, how Horst kissed his neck and touched his nipples, how he asked him to, how they came.

How he wanted to close his face with his hands the first time Horst fucked him.

How he fucked him on his back after he'd calmed down.

How hard it was.

How happy it made him feel.

  
How happy he feels now.

  
How happy he _is._

  
But before he does, before they spend fuck knows how many hours hugging on the floor and smiling, crying, talking, wiping each other's tears, before that Tim reads the letter, bending over Ginger's shoulder.

"Fuck, he's sweet," he says, straightening up and lighting up a smoke that's been stuck between his teeth. "So what, when he's here again, how about double penetration?"


	15. Why are you fucking crying?

  
"Were you embarrassed?" John asks, fingers in Ginger's hair confused, not knowing which strand to grace. "You know, when we... When I first did it to you?"

Ginger exhales softly, shifting, head in his lap.

"Yeah."

John's lips form a thin line on his somewhat enlightened face.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

It isn't yet all-knowing.

Ginger stays silent for a while, enjoying John's kind touch.

"Because you wanted it."

"But I hurt you," John whines. "Ginj, I hurt you."

Ginger touches his fingers combing his hair.

"No."

John shakes his head.

"You didn't. John, you didn't."

It's not yet all-knowing, it is somewhat enlightened, it is beautiful and wrinkled, cracked, fractured by the pain.

"I did. Fuck... I didn't know, Ginj. I laughed. I laughed at you, don't you remember? Fucking teased you about that. About _everything_. So dumb."

"John," Ginger says, pressing his face into John's palm. "It's okay. Don't. It's fine. Don't cry."

John sniffs, wipes his running nose, looks down at Ginger, hand finding his hair again. 

John's face looks like it is made of light.

"You know," he smiles weakly. "I just... I just wanted you to relax a bit. To like... Have fun."

Ginger laughs.

"Sorry," he says, glancing up at John. "I uh... I don't think I can. I can't be like that. Like you. Or... I just. I don't like myself." John whines again, fists clenching. "I'm... Fuck, that... mirror. He... I've seen how I look, you know. When he... in front of it. And I..."

"No."

John's hand hovers in thin air. Hovers above Ginger's mouth.

"No."

Ginger closes his eyes.

"Yes," he sighs, breath stuttering. "I look fucking ugly, John. I feel ugly. I've always done. Ugly and disgusting and ridiculous and---" he cuts himself short, touching his face John's tears've fallen on. "John. John, please. Don't cry."

"You---"

"That's... That's just how I feel, okay? I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John. But that's just how I feel."

It's not all-knowing, somewhat enlightened, beautiful and wrinkled, cracked, fractured, devastated, wet.

John is crying.

"But I don---"

"I know," Ginger hurries out, biting his lips. "I know you don't want me to feel like that. But... I can't. You know, I really can't. But I... I want you. To. Love me. I can... I don't like myself. But I can wan---"

John's pure pain.

"God, squid, shut up," Tim says from the chair, squeezing his forehead tight. "What are you even saying, you dumb motherfucker? Shut up. Shut the fuck up. He shouldn't listen to this. It's not for children's fucking ears, you moron. Shut your stupid, stupid mouth."

There is silence.

Silence and John's pathetic sniffing.

John's pathetic sniffing and Ginger's dying breath.

John's sniffing and Ginger's breath and the sound of Tim's quick steps towards them.

"Shut up," he says, towering above them shaking on the bed together. "You can. I know that you _can_ , squid. And this cry baby loves you. So much. So shut the fuck up. Shut up and let him."

  
Ginger's neck arches, white throat exposed, as he lifts his hand, brushing John's messy hair off his face awkwardly, missing a few dirty black strands a couple of times.

He smiles.

When John's fingers hover in thin air next to his face, John also smiling, face pure kindness, affection and delight, he catches them between his lips, licking the fingertips, and Tim knows how those wet, broken breaths feel on John's skin.

Tim feels like a ghost.

And as he gets up quietly to leave them, to disappear and vanish, to dissolve, Ginger's soft voice stops him, calls him, and he has seen John's delighted face, his pretty visage, so many times, he knows this expression, it's love, affection, kindness, it is dreamy, it's just he's never seen it being directed at himself.

Tim sits on the bed with two idiots still clinging to him and slowly, gently fucks Ginger's mouth with John's fingers.

  
John has forgiven him so often that now he simply can't help himself.

  
"Tim, I can't," John says, clinging to him in the darkness of the kitchen. "I just can't. I want to fucking die." 

It's four in the morning, and Tim's been smoking there alone.

"Bullshit."

"Fuck, Tim, how... How could you?" John says, soaking his shirt. "I love him, you know. I love him so much. And he just... He---"

"Yeah."

"He _hates_ himself," John says, incinerating the skin on his neck with his breath. "I love him and he hates himself. It... It hurts so much. What he says... I can't. Tim, I just can't anymore."

"You can."

"Fuck, Tim. How could you?" John says, shaking him by his shoulders. "How could you listen to all of that and not just... _die_ right there. You've known... I mean, you fucking knew all that. You did, didn't you? You've known and you just... How could you? Fuck. You... How could you fucking take it?"

Tim hugs him tight, constricting, crushing him.

Tim sighs.

"I am a heartless jerk," he says. "You do tend to forget that."


	16. ft. Earth

  
"Ofh pfuckh, Hgingfer," Tim says, steering his insolent tongue inside his oral cavity, dragging his rapturous mouth across the pillow, dragging his unfamiliar hand up to stuff his rapturous mouth with it, Ginger's tender extremity stirring inside his guts. "Pfuckhinfg hwellh, fsquihd."

Ginger's other tender extremity that is not so busy at the moment lands on his hip, Ginger's plasma burning his skin, and warm radioactive foam engulfs Tim's barely present body, Tim sinking his teeth into his own flesh and propelling another piece of it to bounce merrily between his thighs by furiously slapping the shit out of it, shaking with high amplitude and clenching around Ginger's hard-working hand, turning into mashed bullshit and then, after his guts are yet again tentacle free, falling down on the bed, landing in his own mess and groaning.

"Fuck me," he says, flipping over, when Ginger's hand is yet again glove free, throwing his legs open and wrapping them tight around Ginger's shivering blanket of a body, pulling him closer, bathing in their shared sweat, his guts getting full again, first of Ginger's awesome cock, then of his pretty cool junk, Tim himself not doing much to help Ginger in his affectionate locomotion, barely able to move, just clinging to him and feeling him doing the same, basking in the ocean and running his palm over Ginger's spinal column once that jelly blanket falls on top of him enitrely, pressed into him by gravity, and listening to Ginger's warmhearted questions and his devoted declarations and interrupting them with his own.

"Of course I am alright," Tim says, not yet trying to change his spatial position, but still getting overcome by the need to fill his lungs with smoke. "I am awesome. And fucking dumb."

Ginger hums inquistive noises at him, so Tim elaborates.

"I should've given you a second chance long ago," he says, trying to shift, the need to ruin his tender inner tissue getting more and more urgent. "I'm a heathen. I should've known better. John is not the only god of fisting. You're also a god of fisting."

Ginger breathes out some soft laughs at him, rolling off him and accepting the cigarette Tim comradely shoves in his mouth after performing the same procedure on himself first.

"It's just you're gods of two different types of fisting," Tim continues, taking a drag and turning to lie on his side, Ginger mirroring his behaviour perfectly. "He's a god of wrathy anal hammering. You're a god of merciful anal gratification."

Ginger laughs again, and Tim pushes his hair off his face.

"So are you feeling better?" Ginger asks, pressing his face into Tim's palm.

"Hell, yeah," Tim says, shrugging awkwardly. "We should make it a permanent solution. Like, every time I have to go visit that raspy former spouse of mine just greet me in the doorway with your fist. I'll enter the house bent and backwards, so that you punch the part of me that needs it the most."

He listens to Ginger's responsive sound production, his own oral cavity filled with smoke, the entrance to that space quirking in a highly content smirk.

  
"By the way," Tim says some time later, getting up to drag his regenerated body into the shower. "Do you feel like providing me with an orifice to practice my stale thumping skills? John is still being difficult about it. Stubborn little bastard."

"You... You want to fist me?" Ginger asks, getting up to join Tim in this bathing activity as well. 

"Yeah," Tim shrugs. "In the spirit of camaraderie, you know."

Ginger licks his lips, frowning a little.

"I..." he starts. "Are you---"

"I am good at it," Tim says, grabbing his arm and hauling him into the bathroom. "Well, at least I used to be. Don't worry, I won't hurt your terrified hole. It's against the law. I'll hurt some other scared body parts of yours."

He pushes Ginger into the shower once they're inside, opening the tap and joining him in getting soaked.

"Or, if you want, I won't hurt you at all," he goes on, picking up the soap. "That time. We can make the fisting occasion all nice and fluffy. Pain is not always necessary. You'll like it anyway."

"Fuck off," Ginger says, a smile in his voice. "Okay. Alright. If you want to."

"Sweet," Tim says, a massive grin in his. "Good to know at least one of my partners in crime understands the importance of cooperation."

  
St.Pauli, Simon-von-Utrecht

  
A few days later they engage in a somewhat different bathing exercise, Tim convincing Ginger to let him conduct it with his generous helping hand, citing their previous pleasurable bathroom activities as the reason to pump Ginger's ass full of water jointly and thus increase the sexiness of the tiled premises even more. 

But first they spoil their debauched bedroom, Tim whistling and unpacking the cheerfully blue bulb syringe, filling it up with liquid of a pretty modest temperature and applying lube to its relevant parts, Ginger lying on the bed in a fetal position, following Tim's every movement with his cautious eyes as if Tim is assembling a terrifying weapon of mass destruction and not preparing an enema, and, truth to be told, Tim is doing both. Then Ginger's ass gets pumped full of water, Ginger himself gets sweaty, shivering and feverish, gripping the sheets with his hand, trying to hold himself together and to hold the water behind the dam, and Tim sits on his heels in front of him, holding his sweaty feverish face with his steady hand, needlessly prolonging the process, plutonium shimerring in his chest, Tim allowing it to implode.

Tim keeps paying excessive attention to Ginger's sweaty feverish features when they enter the bathroom, touching every part of Ginger's blushing face with his meticulous fingers, Ginger's scared ones touching his arms while Ginger empties his guts, trying to stifle the sound production and failing magnificently and generating some miserable panting and pathetic whimpering that are also very much present on the long list of embarrassing things Tim's been so diligently addressing, getting clean as a whistle and ready for stuffing and overly agitated by the process Tim's been so diligently prolonging. 

They spend some time just lying on the bed after that, smoking, Tim managing to get rid of the premature excitement their preparations caused him and do the very opposite to Ginger, toying with his cock and enlarging both it and his agitation until it's time to put on the gloves. Then Tim puts on the gloves and drowns Ginger in lube, Ginger spreading his legs and holding himself open stoically, dragging his head across the pillow and arching his neck, breathing audibly and distracting Tim with his reactions, Tim practicing not only his thumping skils, but also some verbal arithmetic, bilngual swearing, buddhist meditation and unbelievable patience, producing various physiological fluids and gritting his teeth until his currently rather gentle fist finally ends up enveloped by Ginger's fearful guts. 

When that is achieved, they perform their newest number, Tim providing the beat and Ginger taking care of the melody, chanting Tim's name and demonstrating his command of foul language as well, monoligual it might be, his excitement rising exponentially, his whole body joining Tim's neglected cock in liquifying, Ginger's own cock staying abandoned too, despite Ginger directing a petition at Tim regarding this exact subject after chewing on his lips and averting his gaze and turning his face away from him for fourteen billion times, finally gathering the verbal strength and adding some politeness and saying he wants to come, Tim responding with rudeness and calling him a filthy fuck and wondering out loud if a fucking _fist_ is not enough to satisfy his shitty ass and informing him that jerking off is not allowed, inviting him to summon help from his imagination or his oral cavity, if thinking dirty is also insufficient, occupying his own trap with a sneer and with Ginger's toes, giving him not only his talented manual service, but also the necessary kick, propelling the orgasmic wave to overcome him by his helpful locomotion, Ginger himself making efforts to meet the blissful waters, taking Tim up on his offers, first expelling a substantial amount of swearing out of his mouth and then opening it wide with a pitiful moan, blushing and staring at Tim sucking his ridiculous toes and seemingly imagining sucking something of Tim's, white and red and scared of himself, coming with shock in his eyes and shocks going through his sweaty body, a rather sensitive part of which Tim keeps punching steadily, fistfucking Ginger through his shuddering convulsions, curling his tongue around his curling toes.

8760, 525600, 31,536,000 (+40)

When gloves get off, Ginger drags his own tongue across his bitten lips, inspiring Tim to think dirty by this delectable and very inviting behaviour and then confirming he indeed will be willing to slurp Tim's molten cock that was on his mind some seconds ago. So Tim pours this aching beverage of his down Ginger's cooperative throat, awkwardly pulled closer to him by his vibrating tentacles and by his own inner engine, Ginger's tentacles really lacking navigational systems, Tim turning the drink into a bloody cocktail by manual self-service, furiously slapping the shit out of it again, ensuring the presence of sweet agony in his orgasmic waters, and shoving it between Ginger's soft warm parted lips, not wasting any time, Ginger licking at the tip and providing the sweet pleasure, curling his tongue around Tim's rather upright cock, breath catching, broken, full of fucking fondness, yet another caress added to the equation, Tim coming after several brief, but marvelous moments, spilling in Ginger's welcoming mouth, purring in the language of his fission bomb and falling on top of his gelatinous partner in crime with a splash, all of his enegry wasted.

The pantheon of fisting gods gets expanded a few minutes later, once Ginger surrenders his timid impressions, Tim placing the title of the demiurge of thermonuclear propulsion on himself and placing cigarettes in both their mouths, proclaiming the great need he feels deep in his wretched heart for thumping some sense into John as well and for doubling the number of orifices for his enthusiastic fisting practice to make sure he preserves his skills, Ginger laughing and proposing to surrender his accommodating body for this sacrifice once and twice and thrice again, if that can save their stubborn guitar jerking prodigy, Tim accepting the gift happily, remarking that it is going to be repurposed expertly, because he's absolutely sure that at least one hole in their sexual triad should remain tight, however attractive the prospect of loosening it repetitively might sound to his greedy ears. 

"No, punching your fearful hole is going to be a very special and very rare event," he explains, shaking his head. "You know, like a leap-year. We don't want to corrupt it. It's to stay fresh and innocent."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, shifting and putting his head on Tim's shoulder.

"And as for John's spoiled cavity..." Tim continues thoughtfully and sighs. "Well, I guess I'll just have to keep providing him with a good example and hope that me losing my mind while stuffed with his heavenly fist will inspire a desire for some anal exploration in him too. Those who can't do, teach and so on."

 _Those who can't be ordered to are tempted_ , he thinks to himself, giving the cigarette butt to Ginger, Ginger throwing it and his own tobacco remnant into the ashtray, pulling the blankets up.

large pasta shells 

200g mascarpone

2 x 125g balls mozzarella

basil

garlic cloves

Parmesan

For the bolognese

I fucking know how to make goddamn bolognese

"Actually, how about you both stuff me with your hands?" Tim offers, feeling the warm milk of Ginger's body heat drenching his skin.

"That's..." Ginger starts, his voice unsteady. "Tim, that's crazy."

"I'm not talking about two hands in my ass," Tim says, chuckling. "I sure would love to achieve that result, but it might be too daring even for me. I'm talking about John's hand in my ass and your hand in my mouth."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Tim nods. "That would intensify the experience. That would make me ecstatic. That would make me come like a motherfucker. That might even make me feel full for once."

Ginger laughs softly.

"Alright," he says, letting his melting sprouts loose on Tim's skin drenched in milk. "I'd... I'd love to do it with you."

"Great," Tim says. "Now we just need to bribe the third participant."

  
Tim bribes the third participant with both material items and immaterial flattery, while the Earth completes several rotations around its axis and Ginger just stands next to him, having already signed on without asking for any compensation, Tim being inventive, John being onerous, Ginger being selfless, the Earth being an indifferent astronomical object that simply harbors them.

Glockengießerwall 5, till 6 (the pic sucks, though, the one in fucking Kristiania is better)

When all is finalized, the Earth stays apathetic.

Tim, on the other hand, lies on the bed between his obliging bastards, ecstatic and stuffed with fists, John yet again passing his exams with flying colors, filling Tim's eager guts, Ginger mirroring his cruel anal thumping with his rather motionless and tender knuckly duplicate, occupying Tim's mouth, Tim himself vibrating, cursing, thawing and arching, feeling like a pothole that stretches for at least twelve thousand kilometers and pierces the astronomical object they call home from one side to the other, pierced himself through his imploding, overheating core, first practicing bifacial observation, lingering on John's bitten lips and on John's furrowed brow, praising his diligence inwardly, his lips painfully stretched around Ginger's fist, his tongue busy with tasting his skin, gaze darting to his repsonsive features, lingering on his parted lips and his raised eyebrows, then abandoing this demanding task, Tim losing his eyesight and his hearing and his horrible body, both empty and full to the very brim at the same time, both nasty and considerate to his cock as well, slapping this excited ecstatic protrusion of his and coming in a bursting fashion he predicted perfectly with his future creating skills he practices much more often than his stale punching ones.

The languid planet also doesn't join him in spying upon the oral syrup the sixty nining bastards produce in substantial amounts after he comes like a motherfucker, concerned only with its gravitational interactions, while polytheistic fisting deities moan and kiss and lick and suck and shiver and drown each other's mouths in come and each other's ears in love confessions once the come is swallowed down and their mouths are yet again cock free, Tim's mind, that is temporarily floating in the exosphere, begeting ingenious ideas for future occasions of sexual battery and Tim's liquid temporarily jelly-like non-existent mashed bullshit of a body just a blissful puddle with a cigarette in its mouth, Tim lying there on the bed and enjoying this private show with the moaning kissing licking sucking coming bastards and maybe even more than them, his senses that've been punched out of him by then restored.

Tim is well-versed in that.

The stupid Earth is just a rock in space.


	17. Observe the Sabbath day to keep it wicked, as the pal your Satan has offered you

  
"And of course I'd serve them with lingonberry jam," Tim says, whispering his poison in Ginger's ear.

  
John might have a thing for blood. John doesn't like cutting people, but there're no human beings present in the room. 

Also, John isn't the one who holds the knife.

It's Ginger.

And Ginger has a thing for Tim. And he loves John, and John might have a thing for blood, at least, there aren't that many creatures who display that sort of entranced reaction John's displaying, and what Ginger has as well, is a fucked up mind. 

Tim has worked long and hard on that.

Tim doesn't have a thing for blood or cutting, the scale of destruction still seems way too miniscule to him, but he's always more than ready to indulge John, and Ginger, who's obsessed with Tim's weird feelings and with being close to him, has said that... well, has said _yes_ , and this is a three piece arrangement, so John is on his knees in trance, whining on the floor and following the paths the blood is marking Ginger's inner thighs with, and Ginger is the one who holds the knife, the one who cuts himself for him, and Tim... Tim has the most fucked up mind.

Tim's Tim.

He's sitting there on the couch with Ginger, and Ginger's naked, legs spread wide, and he's shivering, and Tim is pointing his finger and telling him where to cut. John is too busy being stunned. And hard. And holding Ginger's cock as if he has divine rights to wield that sword. And if he hasn't yet, Tim will surely give them to him.

"Right there again," Tim says. "Inside the cut."

Isn't he that person?

Ginger shudders, his sweaty back tensing up under Tim's hand that would be soothing were it not Tim's, and does what he's been told to do. And John might be in a different dimension, but the sound waves he is generating definitely reach Tim.

John is a filthy spoiled monster.

"Hurts?" Tim asks Ginger.

He isn't into blood or cuts per se, but it can be really painful, if done right, if governed by him, and Ginger is a crimson goo that's trapped between him and John, and yeah, they are barely even touching him, John's hand is completely still around his cock, it's Ginger who is pushing into his palm, jerking his hips up and burning with shame at every thrust, and it is Ginger who deepens the open wounds for John's entertainment, and what Tim does is simply run his fingers over his vertebrae. What Tim does is whisper.

Tim isn't into blood or cuts, but fuck, does he love cooking.

He's sharing recipes with Ginger.

" _Blodplättar_ ," he breathes into his ear, and they are barely touching Ginger, he has to hurt himself, and this is even better. This is perfect. "Flour, milk, dark molasses, a pinch of salt, a pinch of pepper, onion and butter. And blood, obviously."

He has already told him what could be done with meat and viscera and bones. Ginger isn't being a crimson goo for no reason.

"And of course I'd serve them with lingonberry jam," Tim adds, dragging his tongue over Ginger's ear. "And this idiot would end up having it on his forehead, you know."

He traces the lines Ginger has drawn for him, collecting the blood, and smears John's bitten lips in it. 

John shivers, but he's so immersed in the spectacle, his teeth are so deep in Ginger, he barely notices it's Tim who's touching him. He barely sees the difference.

Tim replenishes the paint on his brushes, and puts eyeshadow on John's eyelids.

"Pretty, right?" Tim asks, as Ginger squirms, John's fingers squeezing his cock tight. Not quite like Tim wrenches his own, but.

Ginger's head falls on Tim's accomodating shoulder, and he moans. Tim lifts it, pulling at his hair. Fuck blood. Fuck cuts. He's into spinal columns.

"Tim," Ginger says. "I uh---"

"A few more times," Tim says. "Come on. For John."

He is spaced-out and his snout is no doubt haunted, his teeth are clattering against John's in Ginger's melting flesh and he himself is not right up in the head, he's way into cooking and spinal columns, but he's aware. That's the difference.

capers, anchovies, oil, lemon, basil, tiny jerks

Ginger drags the blade over his own trembling thighs, new lacerations appearing on his skin, the vice of John's tranquil hand constricting him even tighter.

"Tim," he sobs out.

"Shhh," Tim says, and now it is not just Ginger's hair he's pulling.

He pushes John's head, and John's mouth finds the cuts. 

The young deserve the best.

  
Tim watches Ginger's cock disappearing between John's lips and guides his head, fucking him on it. 

John has Ginger's blood on his astounded, stupid forehead.

Tim plants a kiss on Ginger's as he comes.

  
"He..." Ginger says, whispering his offers in John's ear. "He tied me up once and uh..."

Tim so did.

  
fuck

garlic

  
All three of them are on the couch, and the stupid kissing bastards are engaged in a discussion about things long past and they are hugging, and Tim is throwing a small ball he's found near the front door at the wall behind the TV and catching it. And eating Ginger's peanuts, while Ginger narrates his own consumption process to John.

"You want me to..." John starts, and Ginger shifts next to him, which Tim can also feel, because all three of them are sitting pretty close. Ginger nods, the movement reflected in the black screen of the TV. "How?"

Ginger sighs.

"Like... Wrists. And uh..."

Ginger might have a thing for telling John exactly how big of a monster he can slaughter, but he isn't very good at that.

"Wrists and ankles," Tim interjects. "Behind his back. A hogtie, essentially. Like he's a calf for branding." Tim's a pro. "I got really inspired by our shrimp exercise, you know."

John hisses, stating there were no shrimps or shrimp exercises, because he's not a shrimp, and when Tim objects, he asks Ginger to elbow him, which Ginger does, though half-heartedly, and they laugh. Tim catches the ball one last time and turns to his side, putting his head onto Ginger's shoulder, lips touching his neck.

"Go on," he breathes out. "Tell him why you want it."

John holds Ginger's hand, while he fails spectacularly at that. While Tim slowly licks his skin.

"Because he'll lie there like a super horny calf for fucking and you'll do whatever it is you please with him and he'll try to screw the mattress, but you won't let him and he'll be grateful, because this is exactly the experience he craves," Tim interrupts Ginger's continuous string of _you_ and _I_ and _like_ and _if_ and _want_. "And he's asking if you'd like to have panting sobbing pathetic sausages at your soiree. And you would. You aren't vegetarian."

John definitely has a thing for Bavarian cuisine.

  
The idiots keep talking, John saying that of course he wants that, saying _yes_ , saying he likes it when Ginger is tied up, it's sexy, Ginger shivering and blushing, and the wound made by Tim's words is deepened both by him and John, he talks about not being able to do anything, to move, to stop him - _him_ \- and that really inspires John, the image and what lies beneath it, and when Ginger attempts to say that it - he, that is - isn't very pleasing to see like that, John pulls him closer, kisses him and says he is, says he is amazing and panting sobbing pathetic sausages are all he's ever wanted, and as they talk, Tim's tongue checks Ginger's pulse, moving up and down his throat.

And later, when he has already rubbed Ginger's - and John's too, of course, because why not, because John asked, because it's so beautiful John didn't even need to ask - back for hours, when they are in the middle of arranging the arrangement, Ginger naked, lying on his stomach on the bed and trying to hide his face behind the curtain of his hair, as if Tim doesn't see that, John busy, knots and wrists and ankles, and touching Ginger's curved spine because both the image and what it means appeal to him, and seeing no concealment he should prohibit because missing things is not the point, when they are recreating Tim's sins long past, Tim's tongue is touching Tim's itching teeth, a cigarette between them. 

A minute after that, when John has finished with his task and the Bavarian squid for eating is now really getting to him, John's hands energized, John's pupils blown, Tim looks around, forcing himself to briefly pause his own hungry admiration, and picks up the hair tie once he locates it. 

John ties Ginger and Tim ties Ginger's hair.

He isn't here merely to observe. He has an invitation.

He runs his fingers over every centimeter of Ginger's skin John has touched. 

"Shhh," he says, once Ginger trembles - and he trembles right away. "Don't worry, there's enough for both of us. Nobody will be leaving underfed." 

He lifts his hand, offering it to John. And John is not yet so gone that he thinks they are the same, they are still separate, even opposed, but angels can trust demons to be evil, so John's celestial fingers grace Tim's open palm, and Tim traces the dents he made in Ginger's skin with them, they stand there, looming over Ginger, two horrid creatures, and they touch him, his strained arms and his curved spine, the sweat under the messy ponytail Tim carelessly designed and his arched neck, his throat, white and exposed, his soles, with their claws, tickling him, with their tongues, licking at the toes, and Ginger lies there, miserable, trapped, their shivering celebratory meal.

Tim hooks his fingers into Ginger's mouth, once John's marble statue of a body starts radiating heat which would be impossible were it not for magic, Tim stretches Ginger's lips with his callous fingers, once John looks like he wants to tear through every centimeter of Ginger's skin they have touched and crush his flesh, his bones, the particles he's made of - and he does want that, Tim holds Ginger's mouth open, his wet moans on his fingertips, and once John sees Ginger looking up at him, the balance tips, the build up's over, John falls, turning into flames, once John sees what Tim has been delighting in while shaping it, he crumbles down, he's yanked closer, into the noose, the vortex all three of them are spinning in together, he looks at Ginger's soft, warm, violated lips that almost touch him, his broken breaths landing on his cock still shielded by his jeans, he looks at Ginger's lips and he bites his, his face collapsing on itself, disintegrating into pieces, and Tim is ready to flop too, go down on his knees, because why not, because John commands him, because John's so beautiful he doesn't even need to.

He stands where he was, though, holding both his position and Ginger's chin, as John pushes into Ginger's mouth, cock brushing against his fingers, John's whine sending charges through his body.

"Shhh," he says, when Ginger gags, shaking as he pulls at his stretched lips and at his hair, angling his head. "Be good for John."

And that, then and there, could've been a wrong move, could've been a move that only pushes him - _him_ \- away, but it is not, because by then John is gone or, rather, John is present, and they are in tandem, synchronized, they have been doing the very same thing for long enough and sure, they do it differently, their teeth are not identical, but they are deep in the same prey, and fuck, has that prey been good for John. And fuck, has Tim just made it even better.

He so has.

And as John's hand replaces his in Ginger's hair, as it is John's fingers that are circling Ginger's lips his cock is shoved between, as John stares at Ginger crying, helpless, pliant, Tim shifts, but he does not withdraw, he simply claims everything else that Ginger's given them, again, once more, his neck, his arms, his spine, his feet, he tickles them and licks them, kisses them as John meditates, fucking Ginger's face to rhythms always playing in his head, he laughs and stops the nervous movements of Ginger's hips, he lazily tortures him while John is stuffing his mouth with his cock and his own mouth with whipped cream. 

There is a special treat for Tim there as well.

His fingers find Ginger's hole and catch the shudder he returns him, his fingers never miss, he always, always gets his share and his share's _everything_ , he rubs his dry fingers into Ginger's ass and listens to his muffled sobbing around John, watches what it does to John, what _he_ is doing to him, he licks his fingers, covering them in bloody saliva, and puts them back inside and takes them out again and licks them, snarling, and watches what hearing that does to Ginger, looks at his curved spine he has been breaking, at John who has his own painting to admire, he repeats his motions, his fingers getting in and out, in and out, he's eating everything John's missing at the moment, licking the plate after John's cleaned the tears and shameful fever of it, they are eating Ginger, together, from opposing ends, and as he moans, letting John fill him and Tim empty him, they get closer to each other, two horrid creatures in a toothy kiss.

Of course, they don't actually kiss, John simply comes in Ginger's mouth he has been fucking and tormenting, tasting his stupid shame Tim planted and then has grown in him, John comes being a bit of a monster to him, doing what Tim has done to him, and Tim looks at John and at what all of this is doing to him, and nowadays, when they have discussions in the kitchen, John avoids looking at him in an attempt not to let him see what being there with them, when John's consumer and Ginger is his bounty, what helping them has done to how John sees him, so it could happen here and now too and yet it doesn't and John's coming, John's eyes leaving Ginger's pathetic face they have been devouring, John comes staring point blank at Tim, mouth open, eyes full of questions Tim's answered so many times already, Tim watches John as John comes while doing _anything he wants_ , John showing him how much he wants him by his side when he falls. 

Requesting his support.

And then it's Tim's turn to finish having supper, so John sinks on his knees and cups Ginger's no doubt blazing face and holds it, kissing his tears off it, his embarrassment and love, acceptance, his surrender and his orgasm, looking at what Tim does to him, and what Tim does is fuck Ginger's pulsing scared hole with his fingers, shoving them in and out, careless and ruthless, jerking off and staring at how his miserable orifice clenches as his knuckles bump into it, John drinks Ginger's broken, sobbing moans he generates because of Tim, licking at his lips as Tim masticates him and soothing him, telling him how much he wants him and how much he loves him, how fucking hot he is like this, telling him to come, which Ginger does, yielding under Tim's thrusts into him and becoming supple plasma, Tim staining Ginger with his junk and sucking Ginger's filth off his fingers with a low rumbling snarl that is a special melody composed by him for the descent. 

  
Tim watches the rope disappearing off Ginger's body and guides John's efforts, puffing out the smoke.

Ginger has John's lipstick and affection on his whole face.

Tim puts his hand on John's on Ginger's chest as two of them fall asleep while hugging him, in an embrace through him.

  
"Where are you going?" John asks, lifting his head from his guitar all of a sudden, catching them in the act, and they blink dumbly at him, not knowing how to explain the concept.

It is a bit like describing breathing.

D 5:12, E 20:8-11

  
They are on the couch once again, and John is playing, obviously, and Tim is playing too, but not guitar, it is a stupid game he's playing on his phone, and Ginger's playing dead or something, well, he had been admiring John's talents before Tim started throwing the ball at the wall of pixels and got really immersed in that and they'd been talking too, something along the lines of how awesome John is and how awesome Ginger is in return and how much they love each other and make each other happy and make Tim want to smash the animated bricks, so that is what he's doing, unaware of his surroundings until Ginger's scared tentacle touches his arm, the sequence of the gas exchange commencing.

Ginger's scared tentacle brushes against his arm, charges tingling Tim's skin, and Tim looks up at him, looming over him and shifting on his feet, a cigarette package in his hand, Tim looks at him, abandoning the electronic demolition right away, neurons standing on their dendrites in his brain, Tim looks at him, lifting his chin, and Ginger makes a jerky motion, Ginger shrugs, glancing at the door, and then Tim smiles, radioactive warmth released, spreading in all directions through his body, and then Tim nods, propelled by internal energy, and then Tim gets up and takes Ginger's scared tentacle, and then they are about to depart.

"Where are you going?" John asks, frowning, catching them between that moment when the chest cavity has expanded but the diaphragm hasn't yet contracted, between the moment when the air flow leaves the trachea and that another one when it has already reached the alveoli.

They kind of freeze, suffering brain damage, their poor neurons lacking oxygen and dying horribly.

"I uh..." Ginger says, stuttering. "Bathroom."

Tim is still comatose, his facial expression just three words he hasn't been given a chance to utter fully.

_What the f---_

"Why?" John asks, squinting at them, voice a bit irritated.

It takes at least four cycles of repetition for Tim to react to that. 

John looks at Ginger and at him, at him and Ginger, at Ginger and at him, at him and Gin---

"What do you mean why?" Tim says, snapping out of his stupor. "Why do you think people go to fucking bathrooms?"

John eyes him like a particularly stupid and gratuitously aggressive jerk. Which he no doubt is.

Reflexes.

"Together?" John says with a twang, and then Tim finally realizes how all of this must look to the uninitiated.

It is a mystery to him how they always manage to keep John out of the loop. That is with Ginger's massive kink for telling him of every Tim's transgression like it's a wicked news update.

And it looks like they are two green Martians running around the fields in intricate circles to praise geometry. Like they are two witches holding a black cat over the pot of boiling goat piss and blood. Like they are two androids plotting to overthrow the human rule over the machines through telepathy.

Like they are two weird idiots set in their weird ways.

In Tim's ways.

"Ah," Tim says and chuckles, squeezing Ginger's hand lightly, because it trembles just a little. "I watch him shit."

  
Here.

  
Everything is clear.

  
Five minutes later all three of them are in the bathroom.

Why? You know why. 

And he? He's fine. He likes it.

Yeah? Yes. I uh. I do. 

And you? Oh. I uh. I don---

Wanna join us?

  
Of course, John wants to.

John's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and Tim is leaning on the wall, and Ginger is naked on the toilet.

Things've progressed.

  
Of course, he's naked. You know why.

  
Ginger's also anxious. Things have progressed, but not beyond this point and they might never do, because when they do, because sometimes they do, Tim simply finds new ways of making him more tasty. And now he's not even alone in that.

It might be something they do every other day, because why not, because it's beautiful, because they want to, both of them do, but Ginger being anxious is the best part of it, it is the whole point, it is what makes it beautiful and he is, beautiful and anxious, not so much with Tim, with Tim it is like breathing, like seeing when their eyes are open if they aren't blind, like beating of their hearts, but he's anxious now.

There is a new element added to the mix and it is causing turbulence inside the petri dish.

  
Simply by virtue of being present, of sitting there on the edge of the bathtub, looking at him.

Of being kind.

  
Ginger's hands are white and tense around his elbows, uneasy naked form, he's studying each and every tile around them, apart from those Tim and John are blocking with their bodies, at them he doesn't look, avoids it, similar to John not daring to acknowledge Tim when they are contemplating sins, similar, but opposite at the same time, because were John to look at Tim when they are standing there in the kitchen where Tim engages in secluded observation of the self, because he isn't kind, he wasn't kind to them, so why spare himself, were John to look at Tim after he turns around and wipes spider webs and dust and mold off his face and listens to his idiocy and his pain, accepting everything, he'd fall entirely, he'd fall for him, at least he thinks that, because in reality he has already fallen, he's in love with him and he's forgiven him, he _understands_ , he is Tim's kin, yet he thinks that if he doesn't face him that is not the truth, he thinks were he to look at Tim he would accept him, accept him for what he is, and he, of course, already has, though Tim is not going to tell him, that is to stay a secret, John is to be suspended in the air, and Tim...

Tim's leaning on the wall.

Were Ginger to lift his head and look at him, he'd see that Tim is not a patient person. And not a kind one. He'd see his anticipating teeth and Tim would bare them, and just like that what they came here for would happen. It is like breathing. 

Then again, were Ginger to take a glance at John, he might see hesitation. Pity. And sure, there is fucking hesitation, it is the first time John's sitting there with them in their sexy bathroom, he's simply worried, shitting his pants just in case, preparing to look at Ginger shit himself, he's not decided yet if this is something he should throttle or forgive Tim for, he's also anxious, but that's not how Ginger might interpret that. He'd think it's pity one might feel for a pathetic thing, when in reality it's just John's kind support. And John's teeth neither of them see.

Two stupid blind bastards.

And Ginger's fucked up head.

Were he to look at them, he'd understand they are disgusted with him. 

At least that's what he thinks would happen, because he doesn't fucking understand a single thing.

He is _still_ anxious.

"Hey, food," Tim says. "Come on. Shit already. Don't make us wait."

Ginger's breath catches.

Pressure generates the airflow and cuts it too.

"Ginj," John says, attempting to get up. "If you---"

"Shhh," Tim says and takes several steps forward, shoving the cigarettes in Ginger's sweaty palm. "He's just having old fuck defecation problems. Do you have any idea how long it takes me to lay an egg? Like three _Black Widows of La Porte_."

"Fuck, Tim," John yells, Ginger laughing softly, lighting up a smoke and glancing up at Tim, looking indebted to him, while Tim's back experiences John's gratitude that takes the form of soap he throws at him.

"Come on," Tim says, tucking Ginger's hair behind his ears, and Ginger nods, exhaling, fumes tickling Tim's nose.

He picks up the soap. He takes his post. He puts his hand on John's nape. He's there with him.

  
Tim's there with him when John shivers, when Ginger takes the last drag and gulps, forcing himself to look at them like Tim would force him, if that was needed, Tim's there with him when John shakes, when Ginger goes tense, sweat on his upper lip he bites, opaque, black, helpless void in his eyes, red spots on his face and chest, Tim's there with him when John breathes out _fuck_ , when Ginger moans, miserable, when he produces other sounds, hand suspended in the air, grabbing at the molecules and finding nothing, nothing to help him break the fall, Tim's there with him when John whines, in pain because his teeth sink so deep in Ginger's bones it hurts him too, when Ginger cries, Tim's there with him when John watches Ginger dro--- it's shit, you piece of garbage, he's just shitting there, you wouldn't want John see him drown, would you, you still haven't even told him, you coward, is it that he'll finally dispose of you and you will starve, won't get the chance to break them more, won't have _fun_ , or is it that he'll actually forgive you, you know he will, he'll allow you that as well, he'll allow everything, it's not like he can stop you, you appalling monster, I think, Tim, I know what you're afraid of, I think you know too, you know, Tim, I'm \---wn, Tim watches him with John. 

Tim feels it through him.

Tim keeps his hand on John's nape, fingers in his hair, it is either caressing or holding, Tim feels his every motion, it's transferred to him, feels what it does to him, it is as if John's teeth are his own, as if he's yet again expressing what it is he wants from Ginger and it is everything, as if he's showing Ginger how the sea food's consumed, but kinder, like he has never been, Tim feels how John ascends and crashes down, how he heats up and boils, whines and cries with Ginger, Tim feels what it is John wants from him, and this is not an irreciprocal process.

Tim keeps his hand on John's nape the entire time, playing with his hair, and wonders what John feels towards him, is he being hugged or captured, is Tim's hand exchanging energy with him a curse, a dark, slick, coiling thing he can't shake off that smears his shoulders in rotten mud or is it a blessing, is he happy that he is not alone, that Tim is with him, is he there with Tim, and it is both, it must be both, Tim feels like two coalescing creatures as he watches Ginger drown there in front of them.

Two horrid creatures.

And Ginger's soft wet open mouth.

His soaked skin. His messy hair. His awkward pose. Embarrassment. His eyes with tears in them. His scared tentacles. His stupid fears he shows them. Surrender. Love. His wishes Tim has cultivated. His broken naked form. His essence. Particles he's made of. Everything.

Two toothy traps devouring all of that.

  
"No, come on," Tim says, helping Ginger to get up, not letting him take anything apart from his own hand. "Lie down. Hop on the plate."

There is a ghost sensation of John's hair, skin and lava on his palm as he kneels, pushing Ginger down onto the tiles, and John is there too, Tim sees him now, Tim's seen him from the start, he looked at Ginger and he saw everything looking at him did to John and what it is you've seen, Tim, huh? what it is you see in mirrors? what is it? and Tim might be on the floor next to Ginger, while John is still stunned and motionless on the edge of the tub, but they aren't really, they have completely merged, so when Tim says _come here_ John does, Tim doesn't have time to blink before John's there at his side, it's not even a fraction of a second, it's John occupying the same place Tim does.

Being together, that's what it is.

  
Two-headed monster licks the fingers.

Well, Tim licks John's, because John's sparkly head is dumb and slow, and Tim licks Tim's, Tim pushes them in Ginger, first John's, then his, he's the active hemisphere in this biological arrangement, John is the traumatized one that hopes for Alzheimer's, Tim puts Ginger on the floor and kneels next to him and beckons John to come closer, and when he does, Tim touches Ginger's bony knee, Tim says _squid_ and Ginger moans out John's name as he lifts his legs and spreads them, Tim says _yeah_ , answering Ginger's unspoken question he reads on his face once John glances at his hole on display and Ginger sees the alien and horrible, the ugly thing from outer space whose parents taught it proper hygiene that it's forgotten because dementia's here, sees John's jaws that are going to crush him, John's muzzle that is going to swallow him with all his shit, his meat, his skin, his bones, his blood and tears, his bile and marrow, his fucking snot John's actually okay with, Tim says _yeah, it's dirty_ and licks John's fingers, pushing them inside Ginger's hole, licks his own fingers, pushing them in alongside John's, Tim says that dinner's ready and the radioactive volcanic creature starts to eat, and its four fingers brush against each other, synchronized in their discordant movement.

The food is tender, soft and shuddering and moaning, accepting what is being done to it, desiring it. 

The food wants to be loved and wanted, Tim knows that. 

Tim knows how Ginger feels and John does too, through him, Tim kisses John, licking at his teeth, looks in his eyes and says _let's fuck him up_ , says _let's turn him into nothing_ , and John whines, obscene and filthy, like even that is not enough because it isn't, and they do, they have their squirming breakfast sprinkled with sweat and shit, the table is for two and Ginger knows that, that's how he feels, that he is pathetic squirming sweaty filth in both their mouths, that it's his purpose, to be eaten by the two of them, he feels like they are fucking him and hurting him and turning him into nothing as monstrous twins, he feels like they are having him together, like both of them love and want him and they do.

They finger him the way they fucked him, each greedy, selfish, predatory, but similar, almost the same in their desire to take what he's giving them, their knuckles bump against each other, their fingers pull and thrust in their own directions, they kind of fight inside him and they fuse like that, they become one, they are together, and when John takes Ginger's hand in his own Tim mirrors him, they hold his scared tentacles as they relish him, revel in his pain and gratitude and happiness, being the cause of all of that, being cruel and kind simultaneously, they hold him, as he comes and clenches, sobbing out their name, they watch him, they don't miss a thing, they take all he has from him.

He loves them so much there is enough for both of them.

  
And yet, Tim...

  
Tim licks his lips and John's fingers once he comes, once they free him, once John touches Ginger's blazing face without thinking, so close to Tim there're no concerns about what his hand is smeared in, and Tim licks it, licks Ginger's filth off John's fingers and off Ginger's lips, they kiss, all three of them, they kiss together on the cold tiled floor of an extremely sexy bathroom, Tim pulls Ginger's mouth open, hooking his dirty claws inside, leaving traces of his own crap on his compliant tongue, and John jerks off, the head of his cock touching both Ginger's soft, wet, warm lips and Tim's shitty fingers, John looks at Ginger, Tim looks at John, Ginger flaps like a flag and moans, John comes, John's beautiful and ugly, John stains Ginger's soft, wet, warm lips and his compliant tongue that's licking at Tim's shitty fingers, Tim fucking tears up seeing how John shatters, so close to Ginger and so close to him, John's him, but John's much better, Tim kisses him, exhales _you're perfect, perfect, perfect_ in his mouth and fucks Ginger's, John's hand pressing on his own in Ginger's sweaty messy hair. 

And Tim's not so bad himself. 

Tim makes all three of them throw up, Tim brings them water, Tim smokes cigarettes for Ginger, Tim feeds chocolate to John, Tim drags fourteen billion blankets to the bathroom and all three of them are wrapped in them, all three of them are a pile of absolutely mental, radioactive, sizzling, gooey limbs, they can't stop kissing, hands and faces, pulses, teeth and fingers lost in hair, having meetings there, they fucking love each other, this, this wondrous misery, is what they want, and there is Ginger who's tender loving food, and there is John who is a spoiled baby sadist, and there is Tim who's Tim, and Tim is there with them, for them, all three of them are there for each other, all three of them are in this together.

  
And yet, must _you_ be there, Tim?


	18. Vintage inspired

  
"Oh," Tim says, smirking, and puts Alana's hand between his legs. "Check this out."

  
They're in a club with John, they're dancing, John dragged him out and challenged him, as if Tim hadn't offered this idea first, John's sucking an offensive cocktail through a straw, Tim's buzzing, hormones and illegal substances, John's little favors to him, his whole body battered, he's sitting at the table next to John, tickled by his feathers, discussing matters of importance with Alana, they literally bumped into each other half an hour earlier, they're catching up.

John knows her, they've met before, not in the way Alana met with Ginger, when Tim was with her and John they were throwing balls at ten pins and their recreational activities were accompanied by John's constant whining, and when Tim was with her and Ginger they both were balls deep in her and the background noise was Ginger's breathless swearing. 

So it is a bit different with John, there's no meaningful connection, but that, of course, could be amended, Tim pondering if he should apply the medicine today.

In the end he doesn't, but in the beginning he just listens to them chatting, the point of compatibility they find lying in the area of their remarkable exteriors, John complimenting her bright make up, brand names uttered, Tim saying _red_ when they solicit his opinion in regards to lipstick, John elbowing him, Alana laughing and then pulling him into a crooked kiss, the latter because she's wearing red and she says she'll share, the former because he tries to wriggle out. He smears the lipstick stain over his face and orders vodka. _Don't blame me_ , he says to John. _The lady likes it strong_. They down the shots, John compliments Alana's haircut, it's stylish, smooth, sharp, hair like dark wine, he's known her for fuck knows how long and she's always been a paragon of chic, he compliments her too, _I am so getting hard right now_ , he says, and there's a bit of fib in his vulgar panegyric, because he isn't getting hard, he can't, there's simply no room, but since it is a panegyric, it's a form of art, and art allows certain liberties, so that's all fine.

Then time of praise is over, John demands a cocktail, the bastard is a dandy, so Tim gets him one and John sucks it through a straw, while Tim is catching up with Alana. He learns about her recent trips, then about her new projects, new models, new photoshoots. 

"Any new consorts?" he asks and she laughs at him, _no_ , she says, _it's the same old Lorenzo_ , and he nods, acknowledging the state of marital progression, even though Lorenzo isn't really old, Lorenzo's pretty fresh, two years mileage, nevertheless, he's already met Lorenzo, not in the way John met Alana, not even in the way Ginger met Alana, just a bit of variation, because Alana can't be balls deep in anybody, doesn't have them, and also Tim is equipped with two holes only, but the one that's relevant to their pretty active leisure can be stretched to fit two phallic objects pretty easily, without much hard labor, and Alana has some rubber friends, if no balls, so that is how he's met Lorenzo.

Tim sighs, it's not that he doesn't like Lorenzo, it's just Lorenzo is the fifth in line of Alana's partners and Tim is in pursuit of victory, he's been throwing balls at pins and has only hit three of them, it's just he wants them all. Mere seconds later he cheers up, informed by Alana that the first pin - David, the long lost husband of her youth - is coming back to town after so many years, that they're in friendly correspondence, so Tim's odds start looking good.

"Awesome," he says. "So like, if that works out, there will be just one more to go?"

"God," Alana pshaws at him. "Don't talk about loves of my life like that."

"It's not like that," Tim objects. "It's just a compliment to your good taste."

Some moments are alloted for returning Tim's lewd graces, time of praise again arriving at their table with John's second cocktail, Alana saying Tim's not so bad himself and fuck, does he know what notable part of Ginger's anatomy she's referring to. Then she asks him what _he_ 's been up to and they chat some more, Tim talking about his recent trips, his new projects, new studios, new knobs and strings, John tickling him with feathers, now on purpose, Alana smiling at his small miseries, yet unaware of his more substantial one.

It's when she asks him about new developements that lie on a more personal front that he takes her hand and puts it between his own legs.

"Oh," he says, smirking. "Check this out."

And what she's checking out isn't brand new, but it's still crisp.

"Is that..." she starts, palming the convict in his pants. "Is that a cock cage?"

"Yeah," he says, proud and delighted, voice like butter.

"Jesus," she says. "You just get weirder and weirder, Tim."

She's not complaining. It's praise once more. 

"Can't help it," he says. "It's just how some drinks age, you know."

That's not an excuse. He's flaunting.

Alana then examines another ostentatious creature that's sucking his cocktail next to him, his lipstick covered lips slightly pursed at Tim's brazen misbehaviour.

Tim's acting out is no accident.

"Are you..." Alana speaks, finishing her survey, addressing now both Tim and John.

"Oh, I'm his pet canary," Tim readily explains, sneering with enthusiasm. "This sparkling beauty is the key holder."

The sparkling beauty jabs him with his fingers.

"Here, see," Tim says. "Punished for my chirping."

He isn't really.

almond

egg whites

pretentious sugar

cornflour

posh booze vinegar (AA cupboard or pretentious oils; if not then buy)

cream, fat

strawberries

Yet.

"is that... permanent?" Alana makes an enquiry once John restores his law and order.

"Nah, don't worry, " Tim says. "It's occasional. You do know, I take care of my friends."

  
They part ways twenty minutes later and it is also not a constant, because he tells her _we should work together once again_ and _call me_ and she does and they go _bowling_ and he meets both David and Lorenzo.

What is an unchanging factor is that John has missed some things, John needs more education, somehow still less intimate with him than Tim wants him to be.

What John is pretty initmate with, though, is Tim's hole that fits John's four somewhat hostile fingers without any trouble or any lube, the helpful liquid not present with them in the car they cram their sweaty, tired, horny bodies into.

Sadly, it's not his entire fist, because John's not pissed off at him enough, because Tim's no canary, he is a pet shark, because John's the one who has feathers, John chickens out.

Luckily, Tim's penance he worked to earn so diligently is still harsh enough.

Sometimes one can't hit all the targets.

Sometimes one should be humble.

So Tim submits, both to his fate and to John, lying there on his back in a positively awkward pose in their car, feet up in the air, ceiling way too close to them, Tim's pretty close to orgasm, but denied, and it is, of course, his own petition, his _contrition_ , his cock he takes care of his friends with if they're so inclined tortured, locked in jail, constricted by the bars, John's four dryish fingers teasing him like Tim's been teasing him, John's another quartet of magical spaghetti digits wet, knuckles deep in Tim's toothy mouth, gagging him, shutting him up, and that is also something he himself requested when he was still able to voice his pleas, John's face, his pursed lips, his furrowed eyebrows, his inner monsters Tim thinks that day might be pterodactyls, all of that obscured by darkness, darkness outside, and Tim laments it silently, Tim uses his imagination, his memories, his other senses, Tim enters his private storage of the visuals he's been blessed with over the years and comes after long minutes of frustrating torment, struck by John's sparkling beauty without even seeing him, seeing balls of boiling plasma in pitch black vacuum of the space instead.

Then he bangs his head and not even once while John fucks him in the car, hitting targets he wasn't aiming for, admiring stellar objects, both their poses awkward, John's whole weight on him, gravity his battered back's worst enemy, but his banged head's best friend, John panting in his ear while Tim fights for inhales, face pressed into the suffocating fabric of the backseat, put on a pike, hanged and gunned down for his minor misdemeanors, John coming in him after brief moments of quite gratifying pounding, no misses in his thrusts, his aim precise.

  
The next day, in the morning, John demands some classes from him, sitting there in the kitchen, still poking sweet stuff that he demanded earlier and that Tim made for him, being slow, everybody else already finished, Ginger in the room, on the phone with somebody, Tim by the sink, sorting through the dishes.

"Wasn't Alana a stage director?" John asks.

Tim stops with his porcelain classification.

-O-CH2-O-

-O-CH2-O- but horisontal

-O-CH2-O- but with one more line

-O-CH2-O- but ethylenedioxy, not methylenedioxy

oh shit

-O-CH2-CH2-O-

yeah

eleven carbon atoms plus fifteen hydrogens plus those other ones

fuck

fuck, I still don't get it

"Yeah," he says. "Still is." He himself is still a bit hungover from their evening fun, from all those illegal substances and hormones that were cruising in his brain. "Why?"

"You said you'd work together," John shows him the level of confusion he is suffering. "What do you need a stage director for?"

"Oh," Tim says and chuckles.

It's like he's back in the dark ages, not a single soul can write, not a single soul is taking showers, knights and witches everywhere.

call N.V.

It's not even that far from the truth.

"That was an allegory," Tim explains, unveiling his language. "What I meant was we're gonna try and make her first husband fuck me when he comes back to town."

"What?" John says, as if what Tim said this time is also unclear.

"Look, it so happened that we have a shared fancy," Tim tutors him. "So we have a treaty. When we obtain a newsworthy specimen we inform each other and organize a reciprocal degustation. And by the way, you're invited."

"What?" John says again. "What fancy?"

Tim rolls his eyes.

"Cocks."

Then he admires movement that happens on John's pretty face, his inner warehouse of works of art getting fuller by the second.

Then he decides to help John out and gives him the short summary of his and Alana's epic history.

"Okay," he says. "It's like this. I knew her..." he pauses, bending his fingers. "Her third husband. That was like... well, fuck knows how long ago. And he introduced me to her. They weren't married at the time, so I got there first," he pauses, quirking his lips. "Anyway, then they got married and we had a good laugh about it. Is that part comprehensive enough?"

The image he's presented with after that is a classic.

"Great," Tim nods, dodging things that were thrown at him. "Then some time later, though still fuck knows how long ago, we did a project together with her. Literally. You know, like a _project_ project."

The sign on the masterpiece of John's visage says he shouldn't have fucking rubbed this particular paragaraph in it.

"Alright," Tim says, showing his palms. "We did a project with her, and her third husband took part in it as well. They were divorced by then, but Alana has many talents and one of them is staying on good terms with her former spouses."

Which is _very_ lucky for him.

"It was a..." Tim tries to go on. "God, is it hard to describe. I'll just show it to you, if I find it, okay? Let's say, an art film."

He actually used to denote it The Ballet Fuckery, when it was still a modern composition, but he figures he should spare John.

"And it was..." Tim doesn't spare words. "It required certain physical abilities from the actors."

"Do you mean porn?" John asks.

He doesn't mean porn.

Yet.

"No," Tim says with a chuckle. "It was a genuine art film. But it was... physical. You'll see. And Alana's third husband was a football player. Like, a professional one. That's how they met, she was shooting a sports documentary."

John squints at him, visibly wondering what cocks have to do with all of it. And it's everything, but Tim abides by the successive chronology in the interest of full understanding.

"So she invited him and she invited me," Tim continues. "And don't look at me like that, I know I'm ruined by my glorious lifestyle, but all of this happened long, long ago, when I still had some juice in me."

He kind of wished he had some juice in him right now, because each and every one articulator of his is fucking dry, but Ginger, who's still on the phone with fuck knows whom, took that salvatory liquid with him.

"Anyway," he says. "She invited him and me and some other guys and we made the weirdest fucking movie ever and had a good laugh about it. And while we were having it and celebrating our achievements, Alana's fourth husband arrived at the set, so I got introduced to him too."

Now, here he slips into metaphors again and skips some parts, but that's not laziness, not sloppiness, it's just his student holds up the sign that says _wrap it the fuck up_ and Tim's no authoritarian in the classroom, he's a simple servant.

"And by that I mean we fucked," he still elaborates on some of his expressive means.

John doesn't look amused.

Ancient history might not be his favorite subject after all.

"After that the pattern became obvious to us," Tim says, summing the past events up and striving towards the present. "And we signed a treaty. Like... a fair exchange of cocks. So I lay with Alana's current - fifth - husband like I'd lain with her previous conquests and now her very first sweetheart comes back to town and I am planning to commit an abomination with him too. That's what I need a stage director for. Got it?"

"God, you're such an idiot," John says, getting up.

"Wrong," Tim says, because of course that's wrong, because _John_ 's an idiot, because that's not the main idea of the lesson, because John still needs advice. "Think big. There's a stunning lady who I will be indebted to. And since she's already well acquainted with my other paramour," he points in the general direction of the room where Ginger's still on the fucking phone somehow. "It will be your turn to impress her. Your rouge flattery won't be in vain. And you'll no doubt exit this cutthroat cock competition a proud winner, so I'll have to buy a prize for you."

Then John informs him that he indeed doesn't mind meeting with Alana and yes, he understood that by _impress_ Tim meant having a threesome, he's not an idiot, Tim's an idiot, but states that he won't be exiting any competitions, because he won't enter them, because it's not a competition, it's just sex, _stop fucking laughing at me, you dumb shark, I'm not like that, I don't need to always be better than everybody else_ , and then Ginger finally hangs up and stops the battle, appearing in the kitchen, and, certainly, teachers also make mistakes and Tim is no exception, so his predictions are, as usual, not as sharp as John's aim is, his premonition not a precision instrument, just an ability to sniff out things that are hiding in the darkness, in the deep, nothing uncanny, he's just intimate with them, he's intimate with John, and what future holds is not only what he thinks it'll hold, but also some other things, a few of them simply nice additions, because when it is time for John to impress Alana he does so not solely by being balls deep in her while Tim is in the same position, he takes her breath away by letting her, and quite willing, to operate her rubber friend on him, her cutting edge acrylic nails leaving intricate designs on his beautiful naked back, while Tim is performing a corresponding task, jerking his hips up on the bed, John's whole weight again on him, and what is different in the days to come that come much sooner is the cast, roles placed on actors by a blind hand, Tim not John's adversary that has a tendency to throw the fight, not for any monetary gain, but for he enjoys lying there beaten at John's feet, instead of that Tim's the award itself, a trophy John's inner demon combats the ghosts of yore for, and that is strange, because Tim is as gratis as prizes come, because he's free, available, has everything, asks nothing in return, just sign this paper, use your blood, just give your soul away, because that exchange is a product of the days long gone as well, because Tim's swallowed John and John's acquired him, John has him in his covetous possession, but anyway, it's not that unexpected, greed being just as sightless as the mistress of good fortune, senseless and somewhat blunt, not a precision instrument in the same way Tim's premonition isn't, Tim's premoniton just a hunch, a feeling in his gut, mostly true, except for finer details, and mentors truly are living beings, not people, he isn't people, he's a shark, but imperfect, not fucking gods, he's not a god, he is the devil, and John is perfect, John's celestial, John's a grace that falls on him from heaven in a form of fire, rocks and lava, John's really, seriously perfect, but fuck, how can one virtuoso be so infinitely dumb.

As dumb as he is perfect.

And Tim rattles, Tim's a chatty fish, but fuck, he so, so doesn't mind.

  
Subsequent twenty four hour gaps occur before Tim discloses what he's omitted in his lecture, discloses fully, amply, he doesn't have all that's ever happened to him documented, but this he does, he has some proofs that are material, that are a record, but first he finds that weird art film he's told John about and John says _sure_ when Tim says _wanna watch it_ and they watch it and they laugh.

The gaps aren't all that empty, noteworthy things filling them up while they pass by, John passing by Tim's medieval castle of a house and giving him his talented support, his helping tongue, and Ginger, well, him he's giving shivers, Tim hasn't worked much on that project yet, so days aren't even fresh, they are still ignorant, so not everybody in the room is aware fully of what it is John's taking, but what he's giving Ginger are long licks across his soles, and Tim mirrors him and also gives speeches, John drives by their place, Tim lets him in, Ginger is in bed, a wifebeater and no pants, hot, a bit hungover, smelly, hair a mess, face a perfect blueprint of the creases on the pillow, they drag him to the edge of the bed, make him sit there, legs spread, cock outstanding, prominent between them, they, Tim and John, they sit on their butts on the floor in front of him, two foul demons, eternal flames they are both consumed by Tim's creation, eternal flames they both are burning with licking Ginger's responsive feet, they, Tim and John, licking them, as a tandem, sucking on his toes, turning him into mashed bullshit, efforts doubled, effects enjoyed, inspiring, Tim giving speeches, making pauses, relying on his feathery accomplice, showcasing chivalry, adoring Ginger's cock nobly, writing poems, asking for small favors, bowing, his role that of a knight, his theatre not suitable for kids, the favor he's asking for being of a biological liquid sort, not a piece of cloth, Tim begging to be endowed with it, on his face or in his mouth, he isn't picky, he's just a simple servant, he's a character in a story about courtly love.

His monologue's impeccable, but the lines of other heroes are all muffled, some pages lost, it was all in the middle ages, a lot of time's gone by, the other heroes mostly silent, incoherent, moaning, John with Ginger's foot in his mouth, engrossed, eyes closed, Ginger with a lightbulb in his, eyes on his own cock, instructions present in Tim's oral performances as well, the other heroes his listeners, his listeners half-deaf, not following the plot, missing his allusions, John because he's rather dense, because he's always paid more attention to what was happening during the breaks between the classes, because he hasn't paid attention to the teacher, he's not concerned with him, he is forgetful, discoveries in vain, because he's not heart-to-heart with Tim, not yet, Ginger because he's empty-headed, lost in the woods, lost between two trees, two demons arborescent, all part of the play, Tim's not a bad stage director too, learned from the best, because he is inside Tim's heart, deep, in the darkness, he's shaking between them on the bed, legs spread, cock up in the air, feet ridiculous, hands on the mattress, Tim remembers things, addresses them in his commands, Ginger's begging too, not like Tim, not with words, his mouth out of order, blocked by the electric light, with his entire form, his essence, a trapped spirit, the tender areas between his toes a weakness that leads him to the downfall.

Both of them, Tim and John, swallow down the precipitation, they let him go for a moment, let him go just to suspend him once again, their tongues, their poisoned arrows, travelling from Ginger's feet to Ginger's cock, their mouths meeting, Tim's smirk and John's blissful grin, their four hands holding him, sweat on Ginger's skin, John's eyelashes flutter when Ginger moans, shudders, when his cock they are licking throbs, _come and mascara_ , Tim thinks, moves away a little, lets John have what he himself was begging for, takes care not only of his friends, sucking Ginger in once John is finished with him, Ginger only half done, Tim simmers him in his shark trap and Ginger's soft, his cock is soft, it is a lullaby and he's a stew once Tim is done with him, he passes out and Tim makes him a cozy grave with blankets, wraps him in them while John is giggling, they, Tim and John, are still hard, two horny fuckers, they didn't touch themselves, didn't touch each other, _you wanna laugh at me_ , Tim says, he talks to John, _at least let me show you something worth it_ , he drags him out, lights up a cigarette and turns on his computer.

"That genuine art film," Tim says, turning to John. "Wanna watch it?"

"Sure," John says, munching on Ginger's peanuts.

So Tim provides him with proof, he finds the genuine art film, clicks on the folder, _The Ballet Fuckery_ , John says, eyebrows furrowed, Tim grateful to his wise past self, chuckling, saying _you'll see in a second_ , and then, in a second, John does see, John starts laughing like a maniac in less than twenty, _it's fucking twister_ , he says, _nope_ , Tim says, _it's naked retro gang bang twister in space in the 70s and with white tights, whatever_ , John says, dying there next to Tim, Tim grinning, _could not pass the opportunity to flaunt my asshole for the public_ , he says, that statement not entirely correct, the audience that enjoyed the view - and not only that - of his asshole without any electrical equipment, that's done so in private, that audience quite possibly much wider, consisting of more people, than the public who had to enjoy and then rate and then award Alana's genuine naked retro gang bang twister imprinted on celluloid for the future generations. 

Tim doesn't educate John on the maths, though, because John starts asking his own questions, which leads to disasters, just as usual, _this is ridiculous_ , he says, wiping his wet eyes, _why did you even do that_ , _this is ridiculous_ , Tim repeats his own words to him, _that's why, it's naked gang bang twister in sp---_ , he starts saying, _yeah, I fucking got that_ , John interrupts him, _it's hilarious_ , Tim says, and it is, they both can't stop cracking up, _it's almost as cool as a real gang bang_ , he says and John doubts his assessment, even though he shouldn't, Tim speaking from experience, not just speculating, but John doesn't know that, doesn't know that _yet_ , the clock still ticking, that clock that shows there're brief minutes left till the nuclear hailstorm goes in bloom, the one that ticks inside Tim's chest, _and I am the primadonna_ , Tim continues, _it rarely gets better than this_ , he says, and well, it did, but it's not like he spent all of his youth being spinned and folded, wrenched and screwed by more hands than he cared to count, sometimes he did and that always was a special occasion, the tangled mass of limbs and expectations and intentions had to be marshalled first, staged and directed, not every time, but still, and he himself is also quite knotty, kinky, he is disordered chaos and was the same back then, was fresh and thus a part of all sorts of mishmash, not just this twisted naked retro one.

John tries to make sense of the mishmash, asking whose limbs belong to whom, so Tim lists people present first on camera and then on set, his long term memory surrendering their names, obviously, there was Alana, the director, and that's Tony, he's an actor, like an _actor_ actor, at least that what he was in the past, in the present Tony earns Tim a bruise on his ribs from being elbowed, and that's Russel, should be Russel, could be Roger, Tim's not that well acquainted with him, but yes, it is his arm and he was from the world of sport, squash, cricket, fucking golf, Tim doesn't give a shit, does not remember, that's Darnell, Alana's former husband, who is folding Tim, that's Tim, just younger and in white strategically torn tights, Tim from the past, Tim from the present earns himself another bruise and chuckles, that light design is Gary's, Gary is their light guy, and Alana's current - now former - husband is called Garrett, he is not on film, he's British, a professor, arts or something, obviously, he is not on film, but he was Alana's current - now former - husband, he was on the set, and J is the guy who operates the camera, yes, just J, _Jay_ , not Jeffery, not Jerome, not Jaime, just J, and there was no make up guy, there was a make up lady, John knows her, it was Alana, Alana painted their retro space in the 70s faces, and the enormous rug for twister was purchased fuck knows where by fuck knows whom, probably Alana too, it's her genuine art film, Tim's just the leading idiot in it, didn't need to know things, needed to look pretty and ridiculous, needed to be spinned and wrenched in his white tights.

John gets confused, lost in the woods of the days long gone, between the limbs and roles and Alana's many former husbands, Tim's sagas hazy, plots tangled just as much as limbs, so many pieces, roles and nicknames, Tim himself a mayhem, Tim just says _wait, I have something better for you_ , he had something better for him, his idea, his production, _a party in the cities of the plain (1999)_ , the title of the folder goes, John's beautiful face wrinkled again, _you'll see in a second_ , Tim says one more time, somewhat disinclined to explain the cataloguing system of museum artifacts to him, the countdown over, chain reaction starting.

What John - Tim and John - sees in a second is a close up of younger Tim, the year of bottling that's stated in the title visible on his smoking face, along with traces of the retro make up that was put there by Alana's hand, Alana's hands holding the camera, the style of the footage that of a mock documentary, Tim's hands in motion, one with a cigarette, another in Tim's mouth, not his whole hand, just four fingers, Tim on the film sucking on them and on the smoke, his smirking accompanied by chuckles in the background, Alana's voice distinctive, Alana's voice the only one John's heard before.

What they observe in the next two minutes is Alana taking a few steps back, Tim from the past revealed as a disrobed exhibit on the couch, Tim from the present saying _see, told you, I was a jock_ , John, who is exclusive, extraordinary, exceptional, who is divided in two halves not by the passage of the weeks and months, who is a sole sculpture made of marble and obsidian, John responding with _what the fuck is that_ , Tim snorting, didn't think this needed clarification, after all, John's no stranger to this type of visual stimulation, John has a collection, _it's gonzo in reverse_ , Tim says, and John starts saying something too, but Tim, Tim from the past, Tim cuts him short.

So rude.

"Shall we?" Tim from the past says, putting out his cigarette.

trabeculae (endothelial lining, veins)

Then Tim from the present comments on the verbal magic he, it seems, possessed back then as well. 

_That's Tony_ , Tim says, when Tony's there on the screen, _he's an actor_ , Tim says, _not a bad one_ , Tim thinks, Tim on the screen thinking something else, Tim next to John does not remember, but he can make a bet, so probably something about what's in his mouth, and what's in his mouth is Tony's cock, what is in his modern mouth, though, is a cigarette, he lights it up and then exhales another name, _that's Garrett_ , he says, _not the light guy, Alana's former - but then current - husband_ , Alana's husband's anatomy admired by Tim on the screen, Tim on the couch, Tim sucking him in with a chuckle, Alana's corresponding snickering loud, closer to the camera, Tim from the present in agreement with her and with himself, Tim's amused, both Tims are, _that's Darnell_ , Tim says, following the changes on the screen, _Alana's former - and then too - husband_ , _we were pals_ , Tim adds, noting a certain sense of familiarity Tim with Darnell's cock in his mouth displays to Darnell and to his cock, _that's J_ , Tim with a cigarette beween his teeth says, _fucking camera nerd_ , Tim says, shaking his head, J's voice loud, _Darnell, move a bit, you're blocking the view_ , J says, Darnell indeed obscuring Tim's friendly smooching, Tim stopping with it abruptly, _shut up and come here_ , Tim says, _fucking camera nerd, fuck_ , Tim says, shaking his head again, puffing out the smoke, _I am a rude asshole_ , the younger version of the rude asshole introducing himself to the camera nerd and quite brazenly, shaking J's cock before J's cock ends up in his mouth, _fucking hell_ , a voice says, the sound loud, the speaker sitting right next to Tim.

"Nah, not yet," Tim says, hand on the mouse, the scenes in intermittent motion, Tim on his knees in a tight circle of other pieces, _fucking chess voodoo_ , Tim thinks, Tim swearing, coarse, disrespectful, he's directing, demanding to repeat the action, Tim's panting, beaten face, a series of close ups, Tim pausing them, rewinding, ghost sensations in his cheeks, _they sucked_ , he says, Garrett and Tony sucked at that, no surprise there, J wasn't bad, _oh, that's not bad_ , Tim says, Tim on the screen, grinning, he's just been slapped, the camera nerd's hand quite heavy, Darnell's hand appearing next, ghosts feeling almost real, past blows manifesting on Tim's face, _fuck, was he good_ , Tim says, his own hands itching, his own youthful adventures inspiring him, Tim from the past making Tim from the present hard, Tim from the past back at sucking cocks, _okay, that's excessive,_ Tim who feels nostalgic says, _let's skip this part_ , another scene unfolding, Tim on the floor, folded almost in half, flaunting his asshole, a series of close ups and some proper gonzo, Alana's manicured hand inside him, Alana's _whole_ hand, Tim still making public his obsession with fellatio, abdomen muscles taut, his past physical abilities recorded for the future generations.

"Oh, here," Tim says, finding the moment when hell breaks loose, his past physical abilities demonstrated fully, amply, J on the floor, Tony behind him, Tim's hole Alana so gracefully stretched for him now occupied by both their cocks, his other idee fixe archived for the descendants too, Alana circling the mishmash of limbs, the camera shaking slightly, true to the style, Alana's former husbands working as a pair, _a bad spouse and a good spouse_ , Tim thinks and chuckles.

"More?" Darnell asks him, him in the past, him who's jumping merrily on two cocks, whole body strained, sweaty, J's and Tony's verbal reactions a supporting tune to the main verse, _if you would be so kind_ , Tim who's jumping on two cocks says, delivering his line, a former couple laughing, Tim getting slapped, slapped good by the bad spouse, Tim who is not jumping on two cocks somewhat jealous of his own glory, _suck_ , the bad spouse says next, pressing his panting, bruised face onto the good spouse's cock, his beaten mouth open wide, Garrett saying _bloody hell_ in a British accent, Tim with Garrett's cock down his throat gagging, both because of laughter and because there is a cock down his throat, _bugger, dickhead, wanker_ , sad Tim with no cock down his throat thinks to himself, mock British accent and some inner fun, Tim that's full of cocks not actually a wanker, he doesn't take any care of himself, just of other people he's jumping on, _hands behind your back_ , the bad spouse says, _you come when I say so_ , Tim winks at the camera, winks at Alana, at the public, gives a salute, flaunting his obedience, gets slapped, _fuck_ , Tim says, nostalgia his accent, _was he good_ , Tim puts his hands behind his back, Tony's hands on them, _hold the bastard_ , Darnell says, and Tony sucks at punching people, but he's a decent actor, and Alana's former husband is _Alana_ 's former husband, knows a thing or two about stage directing, gets his hands dirty too, Darnell's hands on Tim's sweaty, battered body, on his nape, grabbing him by his hair, pushing his wide open mouth on Alana's then current husband's cock, his heavy palm landing on Tim's bruised sneering face from time to time, the camera nerd mostly invisible, but vocal, and also Tim's - Tim from the present - memory seems quite refreshed by such a show, so now there are ghost sensations in some other body parts of his as well, the body parts that can be stretched just like they are in the show he's watching, immersed in it almost as much as Tim on the screen is engrossed by penetration, other stars not apathetic too, at least three of them are brief moments away from explosive orgasms, so what modern Tim who's looking at outdated Tim expects to see next is a money shot, and what he prepares to feel is come phantoms filling up his ass, and this isn't hell, not really, it's just a party, one of the sort he likes to imagine were taking place in cities of the Jordan river plain until judgemental fucking angels raided them.

Which is also what happens next, exactly that. 

A creature made of light grabs him by his hair and speaks in lightnings and throws him on the floor, and just a second later Tim swallows his sword, kneeling, pressed into him by his rageful hand, and this is how he misses certain segments that the judgemental angel still observes, but he remembers them, not in facsimile, but pretty well, and also that Jordan river get-together was not his first one, he had had some practice in that area, so he can use his relevant experience and recreate the past events in his mind's eye, and in addition he can hear sounds that were caught on camera, and when he rewatches the footage later he finds out that he was ninety five percent correct in his daydreaming, therefore the segments that he misses are Tim from the past getting full of juice in both his holes, some on his face, it is Alana's former husband's, some on his thighs, running down, belonging to those retired cinema industry workers who are two dead bodies on the floor, Alana's former husband who has just _known_ him joining them, Alana's other former husband who's been somewhat neglected taking their place, Alana changing hers, the camera now staring in Tim's bright red face, he isn't blushing, he's being choked, he's being fucked, he's sneering for the public, eyes rolling back while he's jumping on Darnell's cock, Darnell's hand around his throat, Darnell yanking him up and down, his loyal ally, trustworthy member of the team, saying something about Tim's loose gaping hole, his accent incoherent, Tim who's sucking on a celestial cock thinking _if only you saw my cavern now_ , gagging, both because of laughter and because messengers of God are careless, they bring fire, they rain sulfur, they punish libertines for sins.

What simply must not be overlooked in Tim's - Tim who isn't being filmed - situation is that he knew that the divine wrath was upon him, retribution imminent, judgemental angels breathing down his neck, exhales hot and breaking, whiny, their holy accent quite obscene, their words condemning, angry, pure adrenaline or whatever it is the shiny beings with bird wings have in their veins, maybe it is molten, fluid rock, Tim stole glances at the stormy courier of heavens, supernal image burnt his eyes, the angel's - John's - eyes wide, face distorted, bare, broken patchwork, inner venom gushing out of him, Tim's own radiation thrown in his face by Tim's own devil-may-care hand, the angel's - John's - hands white fists, his whole form emitting energy Tim's been feeding him, Tim's own brew in a wild tempest inside of him, Tim's performance agitating and corrupting him, making him hard, both current Tim and former Tim his foe, a satanic dyad in collaboration, dragging him down, hell and darkness and the ocean, volcanoes sunken, angels fallen, marble turned pitch black, a scourge, a calamity, a cataclysm, Tim a disaster, John a disaster, catastrophe their impendent future.

Their impendent future arrives a few minutes later, but Tim's past is fixed, it is a record playing before John's eyes, and while Tim from the past is being fucked and being choked and told to come and coming, so _humble_ , Tim from the present is being fucked and being gagged, Tim from the present swallows come, John fucks his face, Tim tearing up, eyes wet, whole body twisting, shaking, shocked by lightnings, turning inside out, John half bent, breathing out vortexes of incandescent gas, spitting out insults, offensive adjectives, chunks of Tim's sobriquets, then just phonemes, then only roaring sounds, the names that he assigns to Tim all accurate, on target, lethal, John's inner demon speaking for him, John's inner demon much more intimate with Tim, he's hugged him, lain with him in a tight embrace, conversed with him about both eternal flames and eternal rest, John's hand heavy on Tim's skull, stern, forbidding in reverse, constricting him, John crumbling down under his own pressure, spilling inside Tim, deep, where it is always dark, where it is so bright all living things are blind, Tim gulping down the landslide, choking on his come, responsive in his gurgling.

John's a dead body after that, he slumps down, graceful even as a corpse, and Tim coughs his lungs out, spitting bile, he hauls them - John and himself - up, drags them - John and his own feet - to the bedroom, enters the graveyard, he shoves John under the funerary blankets next to Ginger who is still passed out, even though many years of Tim's life have flown before Tim's - and John's - eyes, he leaves the recent massacre and goes back to study the more distant one.

The blackboard of his computer screen is a still image of his own rabid snout, it's a close up, his bared teeth, whites of his eyes, some sweat, some come, make up, bruises, some fuck knows what, a sense of familiarity rolling over him as a thick warm oceanic wave, not even a reflection, his true self, idiocy, grinning and perversion, all of it exposed thanks to Alana's talents, to Alana's former husband's talents, his hand on his raw throat, his cock in his flooded ass, he cannot see that, cannot see the latter, but fuck him if he needs to, fuck him if _I'm gonna come on cock_ isn't written all over his filthy face, fuck him if he doesn't know exactly how many seconds he has left, fuck him right now, he is fucking hard, achingly hard, but then again, when he compares the clock that's ticking on his unhinged mug from the past and the one that is still going haywire in his chest, he finds his current self to be a bit more lasting, so he rewinds.

Tim who's still present rewinds Tim who is long gone and examines the evidence that proves to him that he's still the same, he's still insane, he makes those ghost sensations real, not all of them, not enough limbs, lacking pieces, but he slaps his modern face when his past cooperator slaps his younger face, that felt good and it feels good, he isn't so bad himself, and when his past cooperator presses on his windpipe he wrings his cock, he is his own hangman, he is the fucking stage director, he is fucked, choked, told to come, it is his own script, his own timing, his time runs out, Tim who's long gone comes on Alana's erstwhile partner's cock, Alana's erstwhile partner follows him at once, Tim who's still present comes right after him, his ass, alas, empty, both his hands busy slapping his other body parts, only got two of those, Alana's hands on the camera when she comes, Tim who's a dead body on the floor getting a mouthful of her champagne, his post-mortem pussy eating grin imprinted on the film, his twenty-first century lips puffing out the smoke, Tim himself chuckling, he is amused, ancient gods are his gods and ancient history is a chronicle of his own triumphs, Tim who's not himself, but who was himself chuckling too, lying there in the pile of comradely cadavers, smoking too, smoking at least three cigarettes that are travelling among all the six participants, credits rolling as he falls asleep, Tim who is present no longer present, Tim unconscious, the screen black.

  
"Hungry," two voices say, waking Tim up, so he wakes up and it is afternoon, late afternoon, he lifts his old broken bones from the unforgiving chair he passed out on and plods to the kitchen, the owners of hungry voices following him, one of the voices - John's - turning into hissing the moment that the other one - Ginger's - announces that he'll be back soon, Ginger himself collecting a cigarette package and a hardcover boredom container and leaving for the bathroom, John lashing out on Tim's old broken bones that very instant.

"What's your problem?" Tim asks John at least fourteen billion times, while Ginger is sitting on the toilet all alone, can't understand what is John's problem from John's verbal blustery, was Tim wrong to show the afterballet fuckery to him only now or was Tim wrong to show it to him at all, what is clear, though, is that it would be wrong to show it to the raspy asshole Tim sends his indecent records to, but that Tim hasn't done, _no, I haven't_ , Tim says, _I only share my solo work with him_.

"What's your problem?" Tim asks, sighing. "You've sent things to me. Was I so ungrateful?"

Oh, on the contrary, he was very grateful.

"I didn't send you videos of me being fucked by four guys, did I?" John says.

 _Fucked by four guys and fisted by a lady_ , Tim thinks. _Let's not forget the lady._

"Well, maybe that's because you're still innocent and haven't been fucked by four guys yet?" Tim offers.

_Yet._

"Fuck off," John says with indignation. 

"What's your problem?" Tim asks again. "I told you I'd had orgies. Don't you remember? You got so impressed by my assholery that time that you made an executive decision to try and play me. You know, when you won my heart."

"Fuck off," John repeats himself too, so young and fresh, but so cynical, no romance in him. "You haven't told me those orgies were fucking gang bangs."

"Not all orgies," Tim laughs, showing his palms. 

This almost earns him throttling, but then Ginger shows his pale wrinkled face, returning to the kitchen, and Tim is safe from John, but John is not safe from Tim, never safe from him, always in danger, past, present and impendent future.

Tim gives the video that was in question to John as his homework and gradually forgets about it, twenty four hour gaps again distracting him with a mishmash of his life, it is still a mishmash, chain reactions intermixing, parallel lines meeting in curved space, Tim meeting with Alana and her husbands, double penetrated by both her very first and her for now last loves, obsessing with Ginger's feet, cruel, tender, cruel again to them, slapping them and licking them and tickling them and washing them, calling the raspy asshole to send him another piece of his solo work and cheer him up, ending up with a pencil in his hand, shitting on Brian's lyrics and getting some of Brian's feces on his own, both of them hit by inspiration, Brian telling him to haul his sorry ass to his place, Tim saying _I don't work for you anymore, remember_ , Brian calling him a cunt, Tim sending him an invitation, _why don't you finally come to mine_ , he says, _I don't want to_ , Brian says, _and also that would be awkward_ , Brian adds, _you live with Ginger_ , Brian informs him as if he doesn't know, _right_ , Tim says, _I might do some shit_ , Tim says, knowing not only that he lives with Ginger, but also that he's been double penetrated fairly recently and now has an itch for repetition and fuck, would that be a giant mess, Ginger would ask his fucking questions, talk to a former colleague, so polite, Brian would nod like a religious leader, Tim would get ideas, _hey, squid_ , Tim says, putting on John's jacket that he's forgotten at his place fuck knows when, _I'm gonna go write and snort cocaine with Brian_ , Tim says, _okay_ , Ginger says to him, _he won't agree to come to mine because you live here_ , Tim says, _oh_ , Ginger frowns, _yeah_ , Tim says, _he thinks that would be awkward, oh_ , Ginger frowns, _you know what I think_ , Tim says, _what_ , Ginger asks, _I think I might make both of you fuck me if he comes_ , Tim says, _wild, ha_ , Tim says, _you should think about this too while I'm gone_ , Tim says, _when you start missing me once I'm through the door_ , Tim says, _fuck off_ , Ginger laughs and hugs him and sucks his face and starts missing him once he fucks off and misses him till he comes back home two days later, _there're at least three tons of cocaine at that fucker's house_ , Tim says, once he's through the door, and quite a few times he says nothing, just closes it behind himself with his foot, leans on the wall and smokes, no need for words, no need for boring books when Ginger is not in the bathroom on his own, Tim there to amuse him, to take care of him, to be intimate with him, so, obviously, the days that pass between his morning quarrel with John that happened in his own kitchen and between his morning, early afternoon and late afternoon intermittent classes he gives to him after John finishes with his assignment aren't empty, the days that pass full of events.

  
"Hey," John says in the morning, putting his guitar away and getting up and walking to the mirror and standing there like a pure perfection that's a bit neurotic about its hairdo and glancing over his naked shoulder at Tim sitting there on the couch with his bass. "Alana's husband..."

"Huh? Lorenzo?" Tim says, Lorenzo - and David - and what is special about them still very much on his mind.

"No, that..." John says, turning away from him. "That guy in the video."

"Which one?" Tim says, smirking, sorting through Alana's consorts. 

"The one you said you'd known before," John explains.

"Ah," Tim says, his bass humming. "Darnell." John hums too. "What about him?"

"How did you meet?" John asks. 

"Oh," Tim says, producing a thoughtful drone himself. "Oh! At the gym. Like they do in gay porn, you know."

John looks at him like he doesn't know, even though that's not true, because Tim's seen his collection, so Tim goes on.

"Uhm..." he says. "We were sweaty and wearing white socks and standing by the same machine for like twenty minutes, admiring each other's muscles."

He doesn't remember much of anything else at the moment, because it happened fuck knows when or maybe even fuck doesn't know when, but it was at the gym Tim randomly walked into and the machine was just a bench press and he tried for it once and there was a guy and he tried for it a bit later and there was another guy and he tried for it the third time and there was Darnell who he didn't know yet, _hey, just give me five minutes and it's all yours_ , Darnell said and was mistaken, it was all theirs, because Tim spent five minutes admiring him having the bench press for himself, the muscles and even more so the familiarity with which they were flexing, and when those five minutes became his past he said _okay, how about I pay you for doing it for fifteen more_ , giving him a round of applause, and Darnell laughed and said _come on, it's your turn, I promised_ , and Tim said _alright, but share your witchcraft with me, I'll give you my castle and my crown and my horse_ , and Darnell laughed again and said he was not a witch - and he wasn't and Tim didn't have a horse - just a football player who liked to lift stuff sometimes, but that he for sure could tutor him, so they removed some weights from the bar, because it seemed that Darnell wouldn't need a horse even if Tim had one, because he could lift the fucking horse, and Tim said so, and Darnell laughed and said his abdomen would hurt if Tim didn't stop saying shit like that and Tim called him a fucker and then it was his abdomen that hurt, but just a bit, because Darnell shared his witchcraft with him even though he was no witch.

Also, Tim wasn't wearing _any_ socks.

Howbeit, when many years later he tells about those times to John he does not remember finer details, so all he says is "sweaty", "socks", "machine", "muscles", "twenty minutes." 

For some reason, Tim doesn't know what reason that is yet, it is not enough for John, he wants a story, even though it is not bedtime and they are playing, well, Tim is playing, John is not, John is brushing his hair by the mirror, John looks like he is waiting for something else and says _and then what?_

So Tim tells him what, and what Tim tells him is again just a short summary of the real interaction.

"Pfff..." Is what Tim tells him. "Then I asked him if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee and we sat chatting at the table and it was like a gay romantic fucking comedy."

Now, Tim wouldn't be terribly surprised if John was well acquianted with this genre too, because the bastard's cheesy, because when he sits with him in the back row in the movie theaters something similar to gay romantic fucking comedies is usually playing on the screen, though he is rarely looking at the screen, he's either looking at John looking at the screen or at the black insides of his own eyelids, his eyes closed but his mouth open, because people sit in the back row in the movie theaters for a reason and Tim knows what that reason is, knows really well.

What Tim also knows is that his description is succinct and lacks their - his and Darnell's - lines and all the context and expressive means and content in general, all of that is lost between the neurons somewhere in his long term memory, but when all of that was still in his short term memory it went like this: he asked Darnell if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee and Darnell said _I don't drink coffee_ and Tim said _what is wrong with you_ and Darnell said _don't blame me, I'm just an athlete_ , and Tim abdomen hurt a bit, _so do you wanna grab something else_ , Tim said, _sure_ , Darnell told him, and they sat chatting at the table, Tim gulping down coffee and smoking countless cigarettes, chewing on some food he paid no attention to and thus it never left an imprint on his neural pathways, Darnell stabbing something on his plate, something that his strict diet approved of, sharing histories that back then were shorter, but still not vacuous, physical abilities and skills and their origins and their - Tim's and Darnell's - origins being discussed, and it was not romantic, their conversation, it had more of a locker room vibe, they weren't pals yet, but Tim could make a bet they would be and if he had made a bet back then, he would've had a castle and a crown and a horse, not that he needed them, _pills, playing guitar and straining my autonomic nervous system_ , Tim said, characterizing his glorious lifestyle to Darnell, _that's all I do, essentially_ , and he was pretty accurate in his report, _oh, and sometimes I lift hamsters at the gym_ , he added, being thorough.

Anyway, John, it seems, also wants him to be more thorough, _and then what_ , he says again, finally abandoning the mirror and starting to disturb the cookies, and Tim figures what he wants to know is not how they _met_ met, but how they _met_.

"Fuck," he says, bothering the strings. "Then, I guess, I flaunted my shit ton of charisma and twenty minutes later I was already jumping on his cock, so we're back to gay porn here."

He does guess, saying this, doesn't remember this part well, at least the first, still at the cafe section of it, because he has more memories of what came next, but he makes a guess, saying this, and he is correct in his speculation, he has experience flaunting his shit ton of charisma only to be impaled on cocks twenty - or less - minutes later, he knows how he rolls, pills, guitars and strained autonomic nervous system indeed, so he isn't in the wrong, but way too succinct, long fulfilling hours turned into a handful of words, the words he used not vague, but definitely not enough to convey the whole scene to John, and his language in the past was maybe just a bit more veiled, not a lot more and not for long, and it was without any doubt sufficient to establish an alliance.

 _Would you be interested in doing grappling one more time today_ , he asked Darnell, stretching on the chair and waiting for the cheque, _that depends_ , Darnell informed him, _what would I be taking hold of_ , Darnell inquired, _me_ , Tim offered, smirking, _damn_ , Darnell said, _you are forward, nah_ , Tim objected, _not today, were I on my game today_ , he said, _I would've gifted you my castle and my crown and my horse and my ass right there at the bench press_ , he said that and Darnell laughed, _you don't have a horse_ , he said, _no, but I have a flight tomorrow evening and I can't afford getting arrested_ , Tim explained, _neither for harrassment nor for fucking in the showers_ , and Darnell shaked his head with a smile, while Tim rummaged through his pockets, seeking coins, the cheque he was waiting for arriving at their table and cutting him short, _so_ , Tim said, when the search was over, _what are my odds, look_ , Darnell said, and Tim had been looking, _I'm signing on, but, you know, I am a football player, so the last time I touched somebody's balls and it wasn't an accident on the field I was seventeen. Not to worry_ , Tim said, he'd touched somebody's balls just four days earlier and he said so, _I am an expert_ , he said next, _you tutored me and I'll tutor you_ , he said when they were exiting the cafe, and it wasn't twenty, it was forty minutes later that he was jumping and quite expertly on Darnell's memorable cock, because they met - _met_ met - at the gym that was a random one for Tim, but a regular one for Darnell, and his house wasn't far from there, but clocks still were ticking while they were driving there in Tim's car, the clocks were ticking while they were getting in the house, taking off their jackets, Darnell asking him if he wants anything to drink, Tim saying _come, but first I need to take a leak_ , two fucking gallons of coffee he gulped down at the cafe threatening to pop his bladder. Then he returned and time was spent on saying _nah, fuck kissing_ , he said that, and on saying _you aren't helping me much here_ , Darnell said that, Tim chuckled, _sorry_ , Tim said, dropped on his knees, _and now_ , Tim asked, _even worse_ , Darnell responded, _well, relax_ , Tim said, lifting his hand, _just not in this area_ , Tim added, doing some grappling on his cock through his pants, _oh_ , Darnell said, palpably listening to him, _oh_ , Tim said, performing the palpation, _oh_ , Tim said again, performing the palpation with enthusiasm and with a smirk, _no, don't go there_ , Darnell said with a short laugh, _I've heard this joke before_ , he said, _alright_ , Tim said and went instead for his thumb, sucking it in his jesting mouth, looking up at him and feeling weights being added to the bar he's holding. A few minutes passed while he was polishing that bar, he pulled it out of Darnell's pants, bit down a whistle, he is no judge, just pulled it out and took it in, gave thumbs up to the owner, the owner took god's name in vain, gave some thrusts and shudders and Tim did too, _my gag reflex sucks,_ he said, getting up, _you, on the other hand, are doing great_ , he said, _come on, show me your bed_ , he said. When they got in bed time wasn't still, things were progressing, things were great, _the fuck were you even worried_ , Tim asked, panting, wriggling on Darnell's three fingers, _they made it sound like two opposing teams during the bees and birds talk_ , Darnell said, making up for the lost years, hand on Tim's balls. Then Tim was stretched and Darnell was lubed and put in protective gear, and in twenty seconds it was forty minutes after they went out of the cafe and Tim finally started jumping on his cock, his abdomen, his thighs, his calves, his shoulders, his every muscle working.

Then, later, Tim doesn't know when, didn't know when, was busy, but later, then he came jumping on Darnell's cock, straining his autonomic nervous system, sweaty, no socks, biting his fingers, head thrown back, Darnell helping him along and quite actively, _don't fucking stop_ , Tim said, it sounded more like _dope farting stuff_ , but Darnell didn't stop, he yanked him up and down on his cock until _his_ autonomic nervous system found its release.

"That's it?" John asks, and it isn't it, there's more, because when they - Tim and Darnell - both came Tim said _have you heard the one about steeplechase_ and Darnell laughed and said _shut up_ and Tim laughed too, both still breathless, and then Tim got up and went or rather crawled to the balcony and smoked two cigarettes in there, leaning on the wall and slouching, his own come drying out on his shaking legs, and then he drank two gallons of sparkling water kindly offered to him by Darnell, and Darnell did the same.

A gap occured, one filled with chatting and with music, Tim fishing out some CDs out of his car, it lasted, but it didn't last forever, _I want something stronger than this shit_ , Tim said, nodding at the sparkling water and winking at Darnell, _do you mean come_ , Darnell asked, Tim's nodding then directed at him and so was Tim's sneer, Tim dropped on his knees again, polishing the bar, he gagged and shook his head, _hey_ , he said after his third failure, _what_ , Darnell said after he said _hey, how about you slap some sense into me_ , Tim said, _oh_ , Darnell said, _not sure I'm following, slap me when I gag_ , Tim elaborated, _oh_ , Darnell said, _is that a thing_ , he asked, _kinda_ , Tim shrugged, _like no kissing_ , Tim explained, _oh_ , Darnell said, _and fingers too_ , he asked, _yeah_ , Tim said, _oh_ , Darnell said, _and here I thought that was passion_ , Darnell added and Tim's abdomen gifted him with mild pain, _that too_ , Tim said, laughing, _but I like pain_ , he said, _hm_ , Darnell hummed, _just this way around_ , he then asked, _no_ , Tim responded, _I also like punching back, oh_ , Darnell said, _won't punch you_ , Tim said, _oh_ , Darnell asked, _yeah_ , Tim said, _wouldn't dare_ , Tim said that and they - Tim and Darnell - both laughed, _okay_ , Darnell said, _please tone it down for now and actually explain to me what to do_ , he said, _because I've never done this_ , Darnell added, added and Tim - Tim on his knees - gave him a demonstration, _like this_ , he said and slapped himself, _like this_ , Darnell asked him, slapped him and asked him _like this_ , _shit_ , Tim said, _yeah_ , Tim said, _more_ , Tim said and came being slapped, beating off on his knees, self-indulgent, then took care of Darnell, took him in his mouth, then pulled him out and Darnell beat off, Tim's mouth open, Darnell's cock touching his tongue, his tongue touching Darnell's cock, Darnell poured him some come and Tim then swallowed it, they sat together on the floor, got up together off the floor, passed out on the bed.

 _Hungry_ , Tim asked Darnell, waking up, _starving_ , Darnell said, said to him, but the pillow heard him better, Tim still got up, got acquainted with his kitchen, miserable athletic kitchen, he sighed and managed, _are you kidding me_ , Darnell asked him with his mouth full, _now you also cook, this isn't cooking_ , Tim objected, _your kitchen sucks_ , Tim insulted Darnell's kitchen, _you should come to mine when I am back from Europe and I'll show you what cooking is,_ Tim flaunted his culinary talents, _sure_ , Darnell said, his mouth still full, _when is your flight_ , Darnell then asked, _soon_ , Tim said, _do you need to go_ , Darnell asked, _yeah_ , Tim said, _need to pack my shit_ , Tim said, Tim said that, but left with most of his shit unpacked, because they fucked again, standing, in Darnell's sucky kitchen, Tim bracing himself on the table, tiptoeing, laughing his pounded ass off, _maybe_ , Darnell offered, _bed_ , _fuck it_ , Tim said, _fuck me_ , Tim said, _choke me_ , he then added, _what_ , Darnell asked, _is that another thing_ , he asked, _kinda_ , Tim squeezed out, already breathless on his own, _you just keep throwing them at me, you know_ , Darnell said, _have some mercy, I am green_ , Tim snorted, _you're gifted_ , Tim insisted, _you'll do great_ , Tim predicted, _I'd still prefer to have a tutorial first_ , Darnell objected---teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life, he said to him\---and then Tim put his own hand on Darnell's hand that he had put on his own windpipe and gave him suffocation classes in his sucky kitchen, and what Darnell gave him was five bruises on his neck and a couple more were on his face and his ass was sore all fourteen billion hours he spent on the airplane, but he himself was not upset, he was quite content, not with the speed of the fucking airplane, but with the way his days were flying, with the way he found comrades, with the way random workouts sometimes worked out.

So there was more, but that is not what John is asking, what John is asking is what happened next, what happened after he came back from Europe, between that day they met and that day Tim met Alana's fourth husband.

"That's it?" John asks him. "You said you were pals."

"Oh, yeah," Tim says. "We kept in touch after that. Met once in a couple of weeks. Jumping on cock and so on. Actually, Darnell was one of my good Samaritans."

His third good Samaritan with strong helping hands.

"Uh?" John asks, he isn't following.

"The bathtub business," Tim explains.

"Oh," John says. "I see."

 _I see_ , John says, but that is wrong, he doesn't see, and Tim doesn't see either, Tim is looking at the strings, struck by inspiration, jerking his bass guitar, trying to compose a tune for that song he wrote at Brian's, Tim doesn't see a thing, not yet, not only because he isn't looking for it, but also because this is ridiculous, more so than being a leading idiot in naked retro gang bang twister in space in the 70s in white tights, Tim's vast experience relevant again, Tim's even more relevant experience not used by him, his ability to sniff out things dormant, suspicions absent, Tim unaware, Tim doesn't see and John says _I see_ , even though he doesn't see, he sees something else, saw something wrong, something ridiculous, heard it too, wasn't a part of Tim's bass tune, was just a phantasm, an illusion, a heat haze, Tim's past refracting on the smooth, boiling surface of black lava, the slumber of a monster's mind that is lacking reason producing bullshit and quite extravagant at that.

  
"And where is he now?" John asks in the afternoon, putting his make up bag away and getting up and finally letting Tim leave the chair next to the mirror and go to the couch from where his bass guitar is calling him.

"Who?" Tim asks, picking up the neglected instrument, wrinkling his exhausted snout stained with red.

"That gym guy," John says, getting up as well, his visage ornamented too.

"Darnell?" Tim says. "God... Don't know."

"But you said you were pals," John says, frowning.

"Yeah, we were," Tim nods, looking at his own painted nails worrying the strings. " _Were._ "

"Aren't you pals now?" John asks, voice confused. 

"Pfff..." Tim says. "Sure. I mean, I wouldn't mind jumping on his cock again." He grins. "Or hanging out with him, for that matter. It's just... Look, I'm fucking old. That all was fuck knows when."

"So?"

"So I haven't seen him in fucking ages," Tim says. "Like... We'd hanged out for maybe a year or a year and a half before he met Alana. Then for some time the three of us hanged out too." 

Tim lifts his head briefly to check if John understands what he means by _hanged out_ in this sentence and this John understands.

Small, tiny graces.

"They got married when I was in Europe and lived in China while I was touring here," Tim goes on. "I didn't stay a self-employed idiot for long, you know."

He is that now, though.

"Anyway," Tim says. "We still saw each other before and after we did the ballet fuckery, but like, not often. I only fucking see Alana two times a year or something and she's based here. And Darnell... Fuck, I don't know. I guess I last saw him like four years ago. He'd stopped playing. Was planning to start a coaching program in... God, South Africa, I think. So yeah. Have no idea. Why, though?"

He lifts his head and sees John shrugging. 

"Saw something interesting, huh?" he chuckles. "I can ask Alana. But, you know, there is no need to fly to South Africa for that. She has some other husbands if you're after what I think you are. All approved by me personally."

This might have been a little too obscure for John, were it not for the obnoxious sneer playing on Tim's lips, so John figures out he meant cocks and hisses, throwing things at him.

Then John says, still hissing, that _he_ didn't mean cocks, it's just Tim said that they were pals and he got curious, and this, well, this should have raised suspicions, because in general John doesn't give a fuck about anything concerning Tim unless it's fucking, flattery or festive presents, but Tim's a bit distracted, his bass guitar speaking to him and John's guitars demanding his attention too, as impudent as their owner, so neither ancient history, nor child psychology is a subject he is immersed in at the moment, he's absorbed in music.

  
"Will you fucking stop playing?" John whines in the evening, and Tim cracks up, struck by the irony of the situation, wondering how did it happen that their roles got reversed.

"Okay," he says, shaking his head and getting up, leaving his bass guitar and two of John's guitars alone. "If you start bitching about playing, then probably it is undue. Just wait a minute, I'll wash my face. Then I'll worship you."

"Come here," he says five minutes later, his snout now free of John's make up, pulling him closer, commencing with the worship, his fingers with John's art covering the nails travelling over John's marble skin, Tim's nose buried in his hair.

"That guy," John says five minutes later, wriggling out and sitting up.

"What guy?" Tim groans, having suffered loss.

"That guy from the gym," John says.

Tim blinks lazily at him.

"From the video," John says.

 _That guy you wouldn't shut up about the whole day_ , Tim thinks.

He didn't think it earlier, not in the morning, not in the afternoon, he thinks it in the evening, because he's been worshipping John for five minutes, because John's volcanic lava of a body spoke to him, because he sniffed out things while he was sniffing John's hair, because John's been meandering in his arms like an irritated fucking snake.

Like a whole nest of snakes.

"That guy has a name," Tim says.

He does and Tim said it fuck knows how many times already, and John's memory, of course, is that of a gold fish, but it is not _that_ bad.

"Darnell," John says, confirming Tim's assessment of his mental capacity and of his mental state, the syllables falling off his pursed lips like drops of venom.

"Yeah," Tim says and sits up too and lights up a cigarette. "What about him?"

"I..." John starts.

"Are you jealous?" Tim asks, puffing out his offensive smoke along with his offensive words.

"No," John says.

"No?" 

"No!" 

"Then what?" 

"I just..." John says. "Why is he treating you like that?"

"Like what?" Tim asks.

"Like _that_!" John says. "Like... Have you even fucking seen that video?"

"Uhm," Tim says. "Not only that, I _am_ in that video."

John squints at him.

"What's your problem with the guy?" Tim asks. "He's just fucking me in there."

"Not _just_ fucking," John says.

Tim chuckles.

"Are you fucking concerned about my well-being?" he asks. "That video was shot in 1999. I've survived, as you can see."

"You..." John breathes out, a syllable and fire.

He... 

Well, now he can see, and John's still blind, deprived of his possessions by his greed, of his castles and his crowns and most of all of his sharks, he has a shark, doesn't have horses, and that shark sniffed out blood, that shark is hunting, playing innocent, playing gold fish, the shark isn't so bad at that himself.

"What?" the shark says.

"Who the fuck is he to tell you what to do?" John says, and the shark starts shaking, dying of laughter, maniacal, falling on the floor, convulsing there, eyes wet, but the whole picture clear.

"Stop it," John says. "Stop fucking laughing at me."

 _Why should I_ , Tim thinks, says nothing, still convulsing, cracking up. 

_You're ridiculous_ , Tim thinks, says nothing, shaking, wiping his wet eyes.

 _How dumb are you_ , Tim thinks, says nothing, drinking water, the glass shoved in his palm by John's infuriated hand.

 _It's a fucking script_ , Tim thinks.

And well, it's not a script of what John watched, there was no script, the party was impromptu for the most part, there was a discussion about the style and the scenes, but it was Alana who was talking, the only words Tim said were _cocks_ , this one accompanied by gestures of navigation, Tim showing the cockholders where their cocks should go, and _nah, I am a pervert_ , this phrase uttered by him when somebody, probably the camera nerd or the professor from Albion, asked him if he needed to set some boundaries, and that was followed by Darnell laughing and saying _yeah, he is a pervert_ and Alana laughing and saying _yeah, he is a pervert_ , and that was it, that was the script of what John watched, so almost no script, but what John saw and what John didn't see and what John should've fucking seen by now has a script, it is written in elementary particles across the curvatures of space, it is their universe's fundamental laws, it's how it all rolls.

"Who the fuck is he to tell you what to do?" John asks, a deeper meaning to his question.

"He's my pal, I told you," Tim says, a deeper meaning to his answer. "He likes me and he knows me. So..."

He only says that when his seizure's over, and that seizure takes another fuck knows how many years of his runaway life.

"That..." John says, crosses his arms, gets up, turns around, then again, one step to the left, two to the right, John's restless.

"What?" Tim says, almost motionless, he just takes a drag.

"I fucking know and like you too," John says next, and fuck, here you go, Tim, another seizure.

When this one's over Tim thinks he might be seconds away from his dishonorable demise, because John's now seriously angry, John looks like he wants to kill him.

And he does.

"Fuck, look at yourself," Tim says, wiping his face again and shaking his head. " _I like you too_. You fucking hate me. And you don't know me. You don't know shit about me. Don't give a shit."

John keeps boiling.

"No?" he asks.

"No," Tim says. "Of course, not."

"You monster," John starts saying. "I fucking lo---" 

"Yeah," Tim interrupts him. _Exactly_. "And you _own_ me."

And he does.

"That's so much better, John," Tim says.

John starts to slop over.

"Is it?" he says.

"Wow," Tim chuckles. "What, even that is not enough?"

_Wow._

"You..." John says. "You wouldn't fucking do that for me."

And it is only Tim's ancient gods that help him not to fall off the bed again, having yet another - a third one - seizure, it is their small graces and otherwise he would've, he would've laughed and choked and fucking _ended_ there, because how can one virtuoso be so infinitely dumb, because it is ridiculous, because he is a private shark, he's public in most domains, of course, but he is a private shark, he is a demented shark, he can be cut into pieces, thin slices, made into a shark sashimi, can be buried mutilated and alive, can be beaten, burned, strangled, murdered gruesomely, he can smile and kiss the cruel hand, he wants that, he'd do anything John wants.

"God, you're such an idiot," Tim says to John. "Of course, I would. I would do anything you want."

There is still doubt on John's pretty face.

"You---" he says.

"Anything," Tim cuts him short and speaks again, speaks soon, because the doubt has now left the surface of John's pretty face, it's creeping underneath, changing vectors, because Tim can be buried, beaten, burned and strangled and John knows it, doesn't know him, but knows it, not A+ yet, but a solid C, John's been learning, because by this point even such an idiot as John could ask himself if he's an idiot, and he's about to start and that is wrong, it's not the point of the lesson, not the goal, the goal is confidence, it's knowing yourself and maybe, on some occasions, overshadowing the teacher, thicker, denser, crushing darkness, because Tim wants this, not anything that can be given in return, just this, just this paper that one - the One - signs with his own blood, it isn't an agreement, there aren't any souls, it's just John's name and then John's signature, not legal ones, illegal ones, the real ones, it is just John, the real John, the one who washed his face, washed all the marble off, down to the core, thick, dense, dark, crushing core, that's why Tim speaks. "I am just a bit confused about what you actually desire here."

He isn't really.

"Fuck me?" Tim says. "You've already done that. Well, first you refused me, of course." Most people don't. He's charming. "But then you did. So many times. I'd have to fuck every Darnell in the entire country for it to compare."

John looks at him as if he _is_ refuse, shark garbage, waste.

"Slap me?" Tim says. "You did that too. Whined my brains out every time, sure, but you did."

Most people didn't. Didn't whine, that is. Many slapped him. Some offered it themselves. Some simply went ahead. Some said no. Some sucked. One said _please tone it down for now and actually explain to me what to do_. One slapped him, light, barely there, and shat his pants - his _no pants_ \- and felt that it was wrong, said he'd rather Tim hurt him, said Tim could hurt him, said _anything you want_ , but that wasn't people, that was squid. 

"Choke me?" Tim says. "You fucking did that too. Thank ancient gods." Most people didn't. He didn't ask most people. Some offered it themselves. Some he did ask said no. Some went ahead, some sucked. One - well, actually, not one, but anyway - asked for a tutorial Tim'd promised. One said _I wish you died in pain_ , said _I wish you suffocated_ , meant it, said _what are you doing,_ said _I fucking want to strangle you_ , said _I'm scared_ \- exactly - said all of that and did it, but that wasn't people, that was John. "I mean, you also shat your pants. Still shitting them. But you did that. More than that."

Most people didn't do more than that. Tim's bathtub business is fairly small. 

Darnell did. Darnell was the third one who did. The third one he asked too. He's charming. And he knows who to ask.

"You fucked me, slapped me, choked me, you tied me up," that'd never happened earlier; clearly, an oversight; or just his love of jumping if it is on cock. "You cut me and you burned me and you fisted me," Darnell didn't, Alana did, Darnell would've been a bit too daring, though, if he attempted that with his current anal cavern... "You murderded my cock. You ate my meat. You buried me." Symbollically. "So what is it you want? Do all of that at once and in a gang bang and tell me when to come?"

That last part, come to think of it, was a script. 

A _script_ script.

"Yeah," John says.

 _Perfect_ , Tim thinks. _Perfect monster._

"Nah," Tim says. "You don't want that."

He isn't trying to piss John off.

It's just there're splits between what John watched and what John saw and what was there, just craquelure on the surface of Tim's past, on John's marble surface too.

John lets out fumes, ready to erupt.

"I mean, that fucking me and slapping me and choking me and most of all commanding me part of it," Tim says. "That you do want, of course. And I'm all yours. But a gang bang? You don't want that."

"Fuck you," John erupts. "Stop telling me what I want."

Ha.

"Sorry, can't do that," Tim chuckles. "You don't want a gang bang. Gang bangs are ridiculously hard to organize," Tim says, his expertise relevant again. "Not only do you need to find people who want to fuck you and can stand each other, they also have to be willing to share and wait for their turn, because sadly, it's just two holes." Even though one of those holes is a fucking cavern. "And you are _not_ one of those people."

 _You aren't people_ , Tim thinks.

 _You are pure greed in feathers_ , Tim thinks. _Perfect monster._

"So what?" John spits out. "You won't do it for me?"

Tim snorts.

"Fuck," he says. "Of course, I will. I'll try and make it happen. It just won't be what you watched." Because what John _watched_ was _Tim_ being filthy greed in sweat, come, make up and fuck knows what else, but no white tights, he'd taken them off by then. "If I try hard enough," especially not to laugh his brains out, "it might even be similar to what you saw." Because what John _saw_ was a phantasm, a mirage, just an illusion and ridiculous at that, because Tim's no souvenir, he is a radioactive shark, because why the fuck would you need mementos, theatrical performances, _acts_ , why would you want them when you've already won the shark's nuclear warhead of a heart. "But that isn't what you want."

Because what John wants is what John is.

"And what do I want then?" John asks.

"Well," Tim smirks. "To be better than everybody else, of course."

  
Because what Tim said didn't get him strangled, but things were thrown at him.

Because Tim is pretty decent as a stage director, though he is no professional.

Because Tim tried hard and got hard too.

Because of all of that and all of the above and because why not what becomes Tim's past in Tim's future a few days later than Tim's present is a visit to a dimly lit establishment.

Tim - Tim and John - meet seven people there.

The first one's David, he's not Alana's husband, _yet_ , Tim thinks and chuckles, he's a lawyer, a travel agent, a fucking florist, Tim doesn't care, David fucks Tim on his hands and knees while John watches them - watches Tim - and before that David finds him charming and before that Tim finds David and before that John points him out in the crowd and tells Tim to go try and get him to fuck him and Tim says _as you wish._

What John also tells him is not to come, so Tim doesn't come, just suffers in the cage, suffers gloriously, and David, obviously, does come, David's pleased with the arrangement, shakes Tim's hand, Tim on his knees, legs also shaken, they - Tim and David - say goodbye to each other, and John says things too, he isn't rude, but lacks relevant experience, so Tim makes up for it, Tim turns his head and looks at John, John's pretty face, John's greedy eyes, _more_ , he asks, _yeah_ , John says, _well then_ , Tim says, _take your pick._

The second one is Andrew, Andrew is John's next pick, proves a little hard to get, must be a window cleaner, a crane operator, a space pilot, needs to know everything beforehand, to grasp the arrangement fully, to make sure he won't cause any troubles, so Tim gives classes when _you'll fuck me and he'll watch_ doesn't suffice, flaunts like a professional, just in case the explanation's not enough, cracks jokes, he's on his game, the night's still young and Andrew, well, Andrew's still young too, fresh and green, it's Tim's expertise he also cites that convinces Andrew in the end, _dude, relax_ , Tim says, _I've been a pervert longer than you tread this Earth_ , and well, that might be a slight overstatement, but Tim is not the one who's in love with maths, the one who's in love with maths is in bed at home, with a book, not yet asleep and most likely missing Tim, _I'll tell you everything when I am back_ , Tim said to him, _or_ , he added, _you can always join us_ , he said and smirked.

Anyway, Tim's not the one who's in love with mathematics, Tim prefers cock, and cock - Andrew's cock - is what he gets, gets to polish, he sucks it on his knees while John is watching, gags on it when John puts his hand on his head and pushes him, shudders, they both shudder, Tim and Andrew, Tim pushed on his cock, throat raw, Andrew pushed over the edge by John's helping hand, coming down Tim's raw throat while Tim thinks _a baby and a baby fucking monster_ , radioactive fondness spreading in his chest. 

Then he says thanks to Andrew and thanks to Andrew it sounds more like a word made solely out of pharyngeal fricatives and voiceless ones at that, he drinks alcohol free beer while John is having a friendly chat with Andrew, John's gained experience, and what Tim's gained is a cock that can't get erect, but desperately wants to, thanks to Andrew and to David and most of all to John, Tim wants to come.

The third person Tim comes onto tells him no, he's called Paul - or maybe Peter - he's an architect, definitely an architect and seems kinda fun to talk with, probably would be even more fun to talk with if Tim could talk properly, but Tim can't, not really, Tim's blood is pumping in his ears, _no hard feelings_ , Peter - or Paul - tells him, _you're just not my type_ , Paul - or Peter - tells him, and of course there're no hard feelings, there isn't even a hard cock.

The fourth person Tim comes onto is a lady with a rubber pal, Linda, that's the lady's name, the rubber pal doesn't have one, Tim knows Linda, not _knows_ knows, actually, barely remembers her at the moment, but still recognizes her, offers to come onto her to John, cites his bad luck as the reason to seek someone familiar, and John agrees, John's small graces, Linda's graces, though, are a bit larger, they are made of rubber, they make him beg, lodged deep in his ass, well, John makes him beg, tells him to, _and don't fucking laugh at me_ , he adds, and Tim tries hard not to, just like he promised, bites his chuckles down, bites on his fingers between begging, begs to let him come, begs the horny ancient patrons to send some sense to John, because Linda's good, because they met fuck knows when and just once and he was high, but he still remembers her, that's how good she is, because he's going to come on Linda's rubber pal anyway, it's just inevitable, thinking of disgusting things not much help to him, he's, after all, a pervert, and the horny gods have mercy, John has mercy, tells him to come, and Tim obliges, and then obliges Linda too, lets her rub one out on his face, him being a dead body on the floor not an obstacle to the lady's pleasure, Tim trying hard to add some tongue movement, because he is, no doubt, rude, but not that rude, because Linda's good, so why not make it good for her.

John's fifth pick is the second person who tells Tim no and, funny enough, he's called John, he isn't _John_ John, he's not Tim's monster virtuoso, he is a vet, a lifeguard, he is a fire fighter, he questions the arrangement, _don't get me wrong_ , he says, _you're very much my type_ , he says, _but I think your boyfriend's jealous_ , he says, _that's not healthy_ , he then adds, _there will be trouble_ , he concludes, and Tim fucks off, dimly lit establishment not a place that's really suitable for lessons, this John not _John_ John, no being no, though this is not what Tim tells John - _John_ John - what he tells his monster virtuoso is _pick another one._  
  
John picks the sixth person Tim meets - _meets_ meets - and his name is Ian and Tim chuckles when he hears that and soon Ian is chuckling too, Tim cracking jokes, flaunting, charming, Tim's recharged and Ian signs on pretty quickly, eagerly, Ian likes them both, Tim and John, _just me for tonight_ , Tim tells him, _but feel free to ask for his number after we're done_ , Tim adds and Ian does and John refuses, a bit awkwardly, and Tim offers to close his eyes and step away, so that they could do another take, _shut up_ , John tells him, elbowing him, _look_ , he says to Ian, _you're just not my type, ha_ , Tim thinks, but he was told to shut up, so he stays silent, though, not for long, _you can have mine then_ , he says to Ian and Ian does, takes his number and they say goodbye to each other shortly after that and Tim asks _what_ , smirking at John, _you aren't jealous, are you_ , Tim asks, _I am so getting punched_ , Tim thinks and he is, but not right away, and before he thinks that, before they - all three of them - say goodbye, before they are done Ian fucks him on his back, folds him in half and hammers him, he's a concrete worker, a loader, a fucking butcher, _dude, stop being so good_ , Tim pants out, while Ian's at it, _I'm gonna come_ , Tim speculates, _I'm not allowed to_ , Tim submits, John who he is submitting to confirming the pitiful state of things, and Ian chuckles and doesn't slow down, which is no help, and the cock cage that Tim's dangling hopping shaking cock is trapped inside is no help either, and Tim's ancient gods also betray him, horny fuckers, Tim doesn't have a single friend in the dimly lit establishment, Tim's on his own, it is a major miracle that Tim doesn't come between the rock and the hard place, between the hammer who rails him and the marble anvil who stares at him with his eyes narrowed, a miracle and, maybe, Ian's language kink, because when Tim feels really helpless he starts praying in the mother tongue, well, he starts spitting out insults, threats, chanting spells, and Ian comes while he's at it, while he's conjugating _knulla_ , Ian comes to that tune, despite those two deeply pitiful mistakes Tim fucking makes while conjugating a fucking verb of his own mother fucking tongue.

The seventh choice of John's is also a lucky one, he's called Eric and he's a personal assisstant, he's a blessing, he underlines the now elderly night with a swift scratch of his pen, says _sure_ and smiles, even though what Tim says is not his most charming offer, what Tim says is _please come on my face so that I can go home and have some sleep_ , Tim's long, eventful life Tim's accent, Tim's verbal magic still operational, despite its owner almost decomposing, so Eric fucks Tim's mouth while John helps Tim getting fucked and Tim is grateful for his aid, John is also a blessing, John's a greedy fucker, nothing is enough, but Eric's generous, in general and in regards to come, he coats not only Tim's face in it, but also Tim's tongue and Tim's insides, because Tim swallows it, can't do much else, still cannot come, still not allowed, still suffering, but at least somebody's happy.

It's two somebodies. 

Well, three, if you count Eric, but, tenth of all, Tim can't count, and eighth, Eric leaves, they - Tim and John - say goodbye to him, they leave too, leave for their car, and from there it is bliss, it isn't pure, it is a cocktail, Tim is misery and John is greed, John's a bit of complaining too, whiny bastard, _I am a guitar player, not a fucking boxer_ , he says, rubbing his heavenly cruel hand after a few instances of punching, and Tim's a teacher, well, he's not, he's a self employed idiot who pulls at strings and turns the knobs, but he's also an odd-job shark, so after John starts whining about his precious hand Tim says _well, let me help you_ , and they slap Tim's face together, one after another, as a duo, as a monster dyad, until they can't take it anymore, because, truth to be told, John's also a bit of misery, John spent their night at the dimly lit establishment achingly hard, though, Tim, of course, relieved him with his mouth twice, eighth after relieving Linda with his mouth and tenth before relieving Eric, Tim took care of John, but John's achingly hard again and Tim's just aching, can't get hard, still caged, but Tim can come, can't do much else, he's crammed, folded in half or maybe in two thirds, can't do geometry right now, can he, he's a pile of limbs that's twisted, spinned and wrenched, John's whole weight on him, John himself on top of him, inside him, fucking him, his heavenly cruel cock deep in his ass and his heavenly cruel hand around his throat, John spitting out fire, spitting in Tim's beaten face, and John's face, John's beautiful, ugly, alien, horrible, perfect fucking face, Tim cannot see John's face, his eyes rolled back, darkness around them, darkness inside them, thick, dense, hot waves of the ocean, of volcanic lava, Tim cannot see John, but fuck him if he needs to, fuck him if he doesn't know how John looks, fuck him if he doesn't know John, John is fucking him, John's monster fucking him, John's teeth are deep in him, Tim's teeth are bared, quite a pair they are, aren't they, but no record of it, no camera ladies with them in the pitch black vacuum of the car, just the two of them, just Tim's firing neurons that are storing things for him in his memory, just John firing, shooting him, beating him, burning him, strangling him, murdering him gruesomely, coming in him, coming in him while Tim himself is coming, beaten, burned, strangled, clenching, blessed, John coming in him and becoming... well, not him, _himself_ , having him better than everybody else, being better than everybody else, being ugly, alien, horrible, being fucking perfect.

  
"Pestilence, War, Famine, Death and The Cock Lady," Tim mutters, when a guy called Kenneth asks him what the names of his new friends are.

"Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy and a professional cock lady," Tim mutters, when a guy---a man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho\---who is a drummer asks him who his new friends are.

"Thffssschghshth," Tim mutters, while a giant squid rubs his broken back with his gooey tentacles, falling asleep, the gooey tentacles now wrapped around him, his vision black, his ocean black, Tim unconscious. 


	19. Be reckless what you fear, you just might love it

  
It is between the second when Tim gives John a metal pen paper cutter and the second when John comes, whining, horrible and alien on Tim's cock that John turns Tim's chest into a mishmash of crimson nicks and scratches.

the thinner sausage dries more quickly and is thus less likely to spoil before it can be preserved

"And the pick?" John asks when Tim shows him the paper cutter that he bought just a few days ago.

"Cool, but impractical," Tim explains and points at the cutter. "Cool and practical."

  
"Where?" John asks when Tim is lying there on the mattress at the very start of the satanic ritual, his hands tied to the bedposts by John who is on top of him, tight, hot and short-tempered on his cock, his hole stretched by Tim with his eager tongue and by John himself with John's fingers John didn't fucking allow him to suck.

The smirk that splits Tim face must look like an incision too, because he's answered this question earlier, because it doesn't matter what it is that John is holding in his hand, a flame or a sword, the point is he's holding Tim and it could be his carotid artery for all he cares.

Tim lolls his head back, arching his neck.

"Fuck you," John says and spits in his smirking face, and Tim feels an enormous fiery ball of joy spreading in his chest and thinks that if this is the beginning of the ritual then what it is that awaits him at the end and licks his lips.

There's blood on them.

Then, when John starts moving, maybe a minute after that, because the bastard gets distracted by Tim's cock that is _angry_ even when Tim himself is idle, because the bastard told Tim to lie still and Tim figures he should listen carefully to the bastard with a knife, then blood appears on his elated chest as well, because the bastard with a knife cuts him with a knife.

And it is not exactly painful, it stings a bit, Tim's used to much higher levels of excruciation and this stings just a bit until it is not a single cut, but a crimson mishmash of nicks and scratches, so it isn't really painful, but Tim doesn't mind, Tim has a bastard with a knife rocking up and down on his cock, looks at that bastard's face and that bastard's face looks... Well, it is not exactly painful, because John doesn't stab him with the fucking paper cutter, does he, even though he might want to, definitely wants to, maybe not right then, but on many different occasions, he doesn't stab Tim, he just rides him like a dildo and disregards him like a dildo and cuts him like a bastard with a knife might cut a sausage which Tim almost is, and while he's cutting Tim he looks... Well, not right away, because at first it's just one cut and that is not enough, John's not a baby anymore, more of a teenager, but then, when the nicks and scratches start to form into a mishmash on Tim's heaving chest, because that type of movement is not yet denied to him, then John looks... Well, like he might actually stab Tim.

And then like he in fact does it all the time.

Like stabbing Tim is his whole career.

John looks _amazing._

John is breathless, gets more breathless with every cut he marks Tim with, with every string he draws under Tim's collar bones, with every move of his perfect, flawless iron maiden of a body up and down Tim's executed cock, and Tim is breathless too and shaking, trembling like a captured shark in the mishmash of the fishing net, the hooks of John's fingernails digging into the nicks and scratches and into the deeper cuts.

John's stained with blood, gets more stained with blood as the ritual progresses, blood on his lips, because he licks his own fingers, and on his pretty, ugly, refined face, because he smears himself in it, blood on his cock, because he starts jerking off, blood in his eyes, because he is Tim's monster, Tim's blood on him, and there is Tim's blood on Tim too, blood on his chest, because that's where John cuts him, blood on his lips, because John graces his willing mouth with his divine, delicious fingers, blood throbbing in his cock, because John's fucking himself on it, having his wicked way with it, blood in his mouth, his eyes, his mind and in his chest, irradiated blood, because he is a missile, a death carriage, because plutonium is melting in his heart and John is melting too, John is melting lava.

John is coming.

John comes, head thrown back, neck arching, Tim's blood running down his adolescent fangs, running out of his mouth onto his marble chest, comes panting as if he is running, as if he's fucking sprinting, both with his hand around his crimson cock and with his clenching hole around Tim, and Tim howls for him, because the bastard doesn't look at him, looks at the darkness of the ceiling, at the cross section of Tim's carotid artery that now lives in his imagination, at the inviting deepest pit, and Tim is all about providing him with experience that is indeed immersive, so he howls for him, as a soundtrack, and does that also because the bastard made his chest into a map of injuries, made him into a cut of meat, because that stings beautifully and so do John's fingernails that dive into the deepest cuts while John himself is whining, horrible and alien and coming and amazing.

"Jesus fucking Christ," somebody says, it could be Tim, it could be John, it could be both of them, and the voice is breaking, the words are crumbling, and then Tim is folded like a fucking shark rouladen, the crimson juice trapped between his chest and his thighs that are pressed tight to it, and then John spits on his own fingers and stabs Tim's ass up in the air with them, and both Tim's cock and John stare Tim in his haunted face, drooling on him, and then there is a cool and practical metal pen paper cutter in John's free hand, there is a blade right next to Tim's leaking cock, pressed flat to it, and then Tim bares his bloody teeth, then he howls, because the horrible, alien, gorgeous bastard turns out to be not so greedy when it comes to decorating finish lines of satanic rituals, because he's generous, he's a fucking miracle, he has his cruel way with Tim's hole and drags the blade of the pen paper cutter up and down Tim's length and almost, fucking almost nicks the tip because of tremors, because by then Tim is a goddamn earthquake and John's also still very much excited despite his recent climax, so Tim howls, sings fucking carols, because it's Jesus fucking Christmas in his hell, because it almost, fucking almost looks like gifts are gonna start falling on his rabid snout from the bombarded skies, because what he gets to live through is so, so akin to what he has coming in his inner life, because he comes.

Tim comes folded up and shaking and tied to the bedposts and strained, misshapen, tense like a rock and bleeding, comes staring at his own cock and at the blade right next to it and at John's face that's right above it, comes howling, on his own howling face, comes very soon, like a motherfucker, like a shark sashimi anticipating being cut if only it could fucking come.

  
It is after Tim gets untied and wipes his blissful mug and smokes a cigarette and John tends to his shredded chest and then devours a bag of peanuts that was left under the pillows by Ginger, it's after this that they lie there together on the bed like two dead bodies, and Tim stares into the obsidian abyss of the ceiling, barely breathing in the fumes, and John lists all of his demands and wishes for the next millenia, swinging his feet, and Tim says _yeah_ and _sure_ and _of course_ and _most certainly_ to each and every one of them, and John laughs in his face and tells him that he's just agreed to be his maid and his banjo player and the bus driver for his and Ginger's band and the PR manager for his solo band and to visit Ginger's relatives with him and to sign off his will to John, his legacy and his old broken bones and his rotten soul, to sign off all of that to John.

It's after this that Tim turns his head to John and stares at him with glowing plutonium that's filled him all the way up to the fucking eyebrows.

"Yeah," he says.

  
It is between the second when Tim finds a bright pink plastic bowl in John's bathroom and between the long fifteen minutes that he spends standing on his grazed knees on the floor wiping the water off it like a fucking maid that John drowns him.

Well, almost, fucking almost drowns him.

  
The way Tim finds the bright pink plastic bowl that John almost drowns him in is a labyrinth.

He stands in the doorway early in the morning, looks in the darkness of the room, he strains his eyes, he spends fuck knows how many geologic epochs lurking there at the entrance to his private chamber before he hears Ginger's sleepy steps and Ginger's sleepy breath and Ginger's sleepy voice behind him.

"Tim," he says.

Tim doesn't turn around.

"Tim," he says again.

Tim sighs.

"Fuck," Tim says. "I..."

It's better not to talk.

He's been... hot under the collar.

Under the fucking _noose._

"I'll..." he starts again. "Look, I'll try to stay out, okay?"

He doesn't exactly want to be in, does he.

"But..." he goes on. "I've been... Well, you know how I've been."

Ginger hums sleepily behind him. Softly.

Fucking goo.

It's better to fuck off from here now.

"So..." he continues. "I'll go drive around first, alright? But if it doesn't help..."

It's not beyond endurance.

Yet.

"Okay," Ginger whispers.

Tim hears his quiet voice, his quiet breath, his quiet steps.

He walks away.

He walks away and Tim drives away.

It's rage.

  
The rage is bubbling in him, rage, contempt, self pity, which is just pathetic, there are all sorts of garbage in his chest, there is fucking wreckage, cadavers made of rusty metal, there is nothing radiating heat in there, well, almost nothing, it's not that bad yet and it might not get that bad, so he drives around, spends hours looking at the road, fuck knows how many hours, occupies one or maybe even two by running, he gets out of the car and runs and then turns around and runs again, again, again, until he is exhausted and it is not like in the early morning he was refreshed, and all that time he hopes.

He spends the night sitting on the ground of the miserable haunted street he ends up parking the car on, he sits there, freezing, wondering if he could just fucking buy every fucking building here and erect himself a bigger prison.

  
He knocks on the door of John's house in the early morning.

"I..." he says, it's better, really is, but it is fucking dangerous, it's not up to his eyebrows, but there is shit, shit that isn't tasty, there is shit up to his windpipe, and if he sways in the wrong direction it might fucking leak.

Who is he lying to.

It might _burst_ out.

John studies the darkness of the circles under his empty eyes.

"I just need to crash," Tim says. "I can fuck off to a hotel. I just was nearby."

John hears the darkness of his empty heart.

"I've been... Well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," John sighs. "Come in."

Apparently, John's been up jerking his guitar.

Fucking---

No?

 _Please, no_ , Tim thinks.

It's almost no.

Tim crashes in John's guest bedroom and falls into the darkness of his dreamless sleep.

  
In the morning that is an early afternoon Tim tumbles into John's bathroom and bumps into the fucking bowl.

It's not that bad.

Because first he drags himself out of the bed and smokes two cigarettes standing outside John's house and he feels alright, well, not completely, but alright, it isn't rage, contempt and self fucking pity anymore, it's annoyance, little things bugging him, it is just that, despite the fact he has to ransack John's kitchen for long fifteen minutes in an attempt to find coffee.

He does then find it and it sucks, but he still drinks it and he feels almost alright, he walks around the room and touches strings of John's guitars and when John walks into the room he looks at him without looking into the abyss and nods and shrugs and jerks like an epileptic, when John asks him if he feels alright, because he does, he kinda does, he only kinda does.

"Okay," John says, and they sit down with guitars in their hands, John because that's what he does all the fucking time, Tim because there isn't much else for him to do, and then there is, then it's one and a half hours later and he needs to take a leak, so he tumbles into John's bathroom.

"Fucking---" he says, bumping into the bright pink plastic bowl, and not only was it painful in an unsexy way, because he tripped, it's also its cheerful color that offends him. "John!"

"What?" John asks, a bit irritated, entering the bathroom without any hurry. 

"What the fuck is that?" 

"A bowl."

 _That fucking, fucking, fucking twang_ , Tim almost thinks.

"I fucking see that," he says instead. "What the fuck is it doing here?"

John shrugs.

"I donno."

"It's your bathroom."

Verversgracht, Jan Blanken hydraulic, Naarden (Gooi)

John sighs and rolls his eyes.

"I don't know. I guess my maid's left it here."

Tim turns his head away from him.

He feels tiny insects crawling on his skin now when he looks at him.

Almost feels them.

"And how long has it been sitting here?"

John probably shrugs again.

"Donno. Two weeks."

"Jesus," Tim says, turning to look at John. "You know, you can put it somewhere else. Somewhere where I won't fucking bump into it. You have fucking hands. They are not attached to your dumb body only so that you can jerk your damn guitar and give me middle fingers."

Like that.

He did sway, after all. He tripped on the fucking thing.

But luckily, luckily John's picky, John's no shit eater, so John's not having that.

"Shut up," John says, narrowing his eyes at him. "Or I will put your fucked up head in that bowl and drown you in it with my hands."

And Tim could question his authority, could ask him who the fuck he is to shut him up, but John's response chafes something inside of him, John's response ignites that something in his chest, pushes the button, not yet the red one, but an obscure one, maybe it's a tumbler switch that turns on the light in the inner chambers of Tim's nuclear reactor, maybe it's just a visit from a janitor to a godforsaken powerplant, to an outcast facility, but it is something, it is hope.

"That..." Tim says, voice raspy. "That would be much appreciated."

John examines his deadbeat mug and Tim smiles a wry smile under scrutiny and shrugs.

He will fuck off if the answer's no.

He can accept lifelong incarceration instead of agonizing death.

"Okay," John spits out, unclutching his pursed lips and shaking his head. "Alright, you fuck."

  
_He fuck_ then gets ready quickly, while the small flame is still burning, making efforts not to look at anything too much and not to listen and not to feel, taking his leak and taking his clothes off, taking his abject position near the merry bowl, kneeling next to it once he himself fills it with cold water and puts back on the floor, because John's hands were n---

Well, he's making efforts not to think about John's fucking hands.

Not to think about them like that.

  
His knees get grazed. 

His knees are open wounds.

He's wearing a bruise on his deadbeat mug and his back hurts, his ass hurts too, his knees are ruined, his shoulders and his arms feel like he was risking dislocating every joint in them and his voice's now not raspy, it's almost non-existent, because he coughed so much.

He feels... well, happy.

Genuinely fucking happy.

  
John's hands very soon land on his bent naked back and his throbbing fucked up head, the sword touching his neck and the hangman's glove sending pulses down his skin, John's hands land on Tim just a few seconds after Tim's hands grip the bowl tight, and then John pushes him, pushes his head into the water.

 _It's not that easy, fucker_ , Tim almost thinks, starting to wriggle out of John's grip.

That's when John knees him, knees his broken back. 

Swift whirling seconds pass, don't pass unnoticed, John tries screwing Tim's arms out, Tim kicks him, splashes the water out of the bowl, shakes his head, that's when he earns that bruise bursting out on his mug, John pushes him down, to the very bottom, Tim hits the plastic ground, falls face forward on it, water again expelled out of the vessel by the forces, Tim growls, choking on it, Tim coughs, John lifting him only to pour insults in his ear, only to share what he is with him.

It's a bit later, when Tim is once again kept under the surface, it's a bit later that his mind gets clear, absolutely clear, it's just reactions of his body after that, of his reactor that has definitely powered up, he starts playing reverse checkers, backing himself into a corner, can't do otherwise, it's his innate defect, his sin, it's John who's holding him, struggling to hold him, he could wriggle out, of course, he could, but why fucking would he, really, why, why wouldn't he cave in and knuckle under and descend.

So he descends. 

It is, of course, a ridiculously bright pink bowl that's only half full of water by that moment that he descends into, but it works fine for him, it does fucking wonders.

"Another round, please," he coughs out when John pulls him out again, pulls him out by his hair, he doesn't want a fucking draw, he wants defeat, and some seconds later he feels that John wants that too, he fights for breath, consciousness leaked out of him, he's lost his higher brain functions altogether, he's flatlining while being in quite a twisted shape, and it's geometry that gives him understanding, it's his awkward pose that brings his backside close to John's front and then it's John's hard, hot, dense cock that digs into his meat, so he grinds into it.

Of course, he does.

That's why his ass hurts.

That and lube being absent in John's bathroom, lube being absent in John's mind and even more so in Tim's, he's full of molten radioactive substance, to the very brim, no space for something else, so John fucks him soaking wet and John fucks him almost dry.

There is saliva, sure, but... Well, neither of them is exactly careful. 

Tim is delightfully subdued.

John's frenzied.

They both hurry each other up.

It's probably not only Tim's socket that aches in anguish after that.

But there's no complaining.

  
There're no complaints, there're just thrusts and grunts and Tim would've howled this time too, why not, but the sounds he is making are staying under water, in the bright pink plastic bowl, John shoves his fucked up head in it and shoves his fucked up cock in him and fucks him while drowning him, well, almost, almost fucking drowning him, because he's still around once they are done, but it is close, and Tim get's close within twenty seconds, within the countdown that has started in his chest, the red button now pushed, gets close to orgasm, suffocation, divine ascent to heavens on poisonous missiles and to John, and John is a bit behind him, John is behind him and John's fucking him, before he comes and when he comes and after too, John makes him come and clench and shudder and breathe in the water, gulp it down and cough it out and retch, shake on his cock, he stuffs him full, replaces shit with flesh and come, John comes in him, so deep in him, and keeps him under water, the water's not so deep, but it's enough, enough for Tim to almost pass out, because he's so, so, so...

Well, he's happy.

  
He falls on the floor once John pulls out of him, onto the bowl with his fucked up head, and it turns over, the rest of the water spills, flowing in all directions, and Tim writhes there in the puddle, blessed and visited by angels, the angel towering over him and Tim bursting with elementary particles of awe and worship, combating his own pitiful, convulsing body to liberate them.

 _My cruel love_ and _my marble idol_ are the tributes that he tries to pay, but mostly fails, because it's fucking incoherent barking of a phthisic shark and not words of English or any other language that he's producing.

"Fucking clean it up," John says, articulate enough, even though he's panting, while looking down at him, says that and leaves, and Tim laughs like a maniac, like mad, because he's mad with joy, he's a beaming, exhilarated demon, he's fucking back.

He's happy lying on the wet, cold floor in ruins.

  
"Are you not coming back?" John asks half an hour later, when Tim's cleaned up and is now resting, stretched on the tiles.

"I need smokes," Tim says, he needs poison to function, so John leaves him for another minute and returns and sits on his heels and shoves a cigarette between his teeth and then gets up and stands there, occupying higher planes, and regards him.

John doesn't disregard him.

"Thank you," Tim says. "I'll pay you back."

  
It's two weeks later that he pays John back, repays him with the same coin, because two weeks later the bright pink bowl is still hanging out in John's bathroom and now also in John's mind, now it is not a favour that he's doing, it's a command, a claim, and Tim says _yeah, sure, of course, most certainly,_ John says he won't fuck him dry this time and adds that they'll use lube and they'll be careful and cautious, because this is seriously risky, and demands that Tim be _nice_ and that he quit wriggling so much and only to that Tim says he'll cut on it, but he won't stop entirely, because he's a good sport and it's a fair chase, he is a challenge and a clever prey, because it would be boring otherwise, _you've just fucking promised you'll be nice_ , John says.

"Oh, I'll be very, very nice," Tim smirks.

 _I will be the finest you have ever eaten_ , Tim thinks, while smirking.

  
He delivers.

  
He fights back just enough, he is fine-tuned, well-lubed and stretched, amenable, he's resonating with the amplitude that John creates, he isn't rigid, he's pliant, positively pliant, reduced from a wild shark to a toy one, flapping its fins in its plastic basin, he's what John wants and more, he's always more, he lets both John and water in, and one's his fuse and one's his cooling liquid, because there is a nuclear reactor up and running in his chest and it might need a bit of chill, because, well, this is risky and John's hands will not be chopping his stiff cadaver were it to appear, they most definitely were meant for different things, John doesn't even touch his stiff cock with them, just holds him, grips him tight and wields his body, dipping his head into the water with the most perfect rhythm, John just fucks him, has his way with him, he utilizes him, exploits him, well, in all honesty, when Tim pays John back he gets the change and what he gets is pure gold, has he ever gotten less in return, no, he hasn't, he always, every time gets more, keeps all his treasures, so what John really does is... 

John _deploys_ him. 

Because he is a warhead, a military installation, he's a predator, but he is a predator in love, and what John does is fucks Tim while Tim is being nice and moans while he fucks him and comes in him as if he isn't fucking Tim, as if it is a human-sized ugly cake with a guitar that can sing panegyrics as the filling that he is fucking while waterboarding, and that, god, that is _breathtaking_.

  
And it isn't only golden change that Tim gets to keep, he also receives a perquisite, he lies a bit later in John's lap with his fucked up head and lets John pour more water in his fucked up trap and comes like that while jerking off, while palpitating with his massive arsenal, while going through death pangs, almost going through them, while seeing stars and seeing fusion in the center of a star, while seeing not a single feature of John's face above him, for there are now just a few fermions and bosons between the two of them.

  
It is when... Whatever.

1:44, 1:44, 1:53, 2:15

What is important is that it happens. And also that it happens in Tim's house, but only because were they at John's, the final part might have been sung flat.

So anyway, one day John puts him on his back and folds him, one day he slaps his hole, while Tim is pushing into it, running towards the blows of the belt and panting, and what is remarkable about that day is that it's going really, really well.

In addition to that, Tim isn't wearing the cock cage that day, though usually, when he is put in that or in an alternate position that is suitable for their goal, usually he wears it and almost always there's that bit about being denied coming, being unable to even get stiff, being _used_ , being a maltreated fleshjack for John, because god, does that appeal to the sadistic bastard - does that appeal appeal to Tim - but that day they can't find it within a reasonable time period and Tim says _fuck it, it's probably at your place_ , which it most likely is, since this equipment - fucking _cages_ \- is not the one he needs with Ginger, and when he does and he sometimes does, him personally, then for those days he has a special room, because it's not his stupid cock that is a problem there.

Furthermore, there's no John's dirty underwear in Tim's mouth, no John's clean underwear either, because it is during those months when John insists on wearing pants that he declares should only be worn without underwear and usually Tim very much approves of this fashion statement, but that day he is a bit concerned about accidental tongue biting he simply hates, but just a bit - he doesn't do anything about it, does he.

What he does do is he howls.

It's going really, really, _really_ well.

  
John leaves behind counting.

So neither of them knows how many times John slams the belt into his well-lubed, stretched, perfectly prepared hole, because for Tim it's not about the number, it can be twenty strikes that John desires or fourteen fucking billion of them, it's not about digits, it's about urges, aspirations, about fulfilling dreams and satisfying wishes, and for John it's... 

For John it is a spiral downwards, descend that is so rapid all his senses have been knocked out of him, it is a pit so dark the only thing he can see and count are supernovas, so that is what he sees.

For Ginger it might have been about the number or, rather, about sanity and safety, or, rather, because his worries doesn't have anything to do with such abstractions, rather it might have been about Tim, like everything for him is about Tim, and also he is the local mathematician, but he's not there with them, he's either with his relatives or with his PR manager or with John's maid or with a bunch of banjo players, he's somewhere else and sometimes Tim does think that maybe a cage is not such a bad idea after all, but not that time, that time he almost, fucking almost doesn't think at all.

That's how well it's going.

  
So John forgets about counting, about caring, whining, his Spanish tunes, Tim's ugly cakes, forgets about... Tim's well being, maybe, yes, Tim could call it that, it isn't Tim himself that John forgets, on the contrary, he's so aware of him he's immersed in him, so maybe he forgets that Tim's a human being that feels acute pain, maybe he thinks he is a slice of meat, but then again, it's also not true, not really, Tim's never been a human being and he is, he is a slice of meat, he's a shark sashimi, but that's no dichotomy, him being a whatever being that he is and just a shark sashimi is not in any opposition, and pain, oh, fuck, the pain, Tim's acute pain John's very well informed of is exactly what makes him so forgetful of whatever the fuck it is that he forgets.

It's something really, really good that he forgets.

  
The less good things there are the better it is going.

  
Tim's also laid-back.

But he's not casual, he's folded up, his lubed, stretched, awaiting hole is slapped and quite enthusiastically, _furiously_ \- but he isn't being punished, it's not his execution day, and it is not because there are no crimes he could be punished for, it is because John has gold fish memory and a couple of calm, tranquil months still make him think sometimes it's not a whatever chtonic being that Tim is he's playing with, it is a gold fish which is harmless, and Tim, of course, oh, Tim knows better, but not that day, first of all, that day he's reckless, second, he's having massive fun going through that dreadful torture.

He's howling with his fingers in his mouth.

He's biting them so that he won't bite his fucking tongue, biting them hard and bursting into tears and yelping, screaming in an elated, in a major key, in A major, giving clarinet concertos, feeling he might be bleeding or on fire, like that specific part of his lacerated body is, like it is torn to pieces and it isn't, but it stings, it seriously does, it _hurts_ , and Tim is chopped with an axe, diced with a hatchet, he's a mess, a mishmash of flesh, he's almost a goddamn meatball with gravy, and he isn't, but.

He's in tears and screaming with his fingers in his mouth.

  
God, does that get John going.

  
And what John is doing there is just standing half bent over Tim with a belt and slapping him, his hole, while panting, as if he chased him down first - he fucking didn't, Tim picked him up and drove him to his house - and he is hard, there is a mist, a fog, a haze of Tim's blood in his eyes, and Tim's reflection's clear in them, Tim sees it even through his tears, sees his own positively broken, miserable, pathetic mug, but John, John isn't even being touched, he was before, Tim was obliging him, his marble statue of a body, but when he dropped on his knees, unbuckling his belt, well, then the order was conveyed to the warhead to switch directions, to eliminate another patch of non-malignant land, so now John is just hard at work and he's quite a workaholic, in love with his career, one with his instrument, with the creature he is playing, and that's why he looks _indulged._

Because he is.

And his head isn't thrown back, that would be inconvenient, but fuck Tim if he isn't being catered too.

Being served.

  
They are like twins in that.

  
It is the same for both of them, both of them are served, it's just John is a deity and Tim is his ambrosia, but there aren't any nymphs with them, so it is John himself who has to throw away the belt - Tim isn't stopping him, Tim's propelling him - it is for John and for John only to decide when he'll be picking up the chalice, what Tim can do is look appetizing, which he does, apparently, because despite there being no nymphs that could help the supernal being with his basic needs, despite the supernal being being spoiled, spoiled by the poison in the goblet, despite all of that John not only does throw the belt away himself, he also drags Tim's folded body closer, to the place that is advantageous to him, he thrusts into him, brings nutrients to his bitten lips himself, needs no help, and because he needs no help Tim just keeps biting on his bitten fingers and shedding tears, howling even louder than before, his beaten, hacked, his ruined hole being fucked enthusiastically, even ruthlessly, but that's not persecution, it's _recreation_ , leisure, there was no chase that he engaged in and also, also, he's not the one who's caught, not really, it's John who's in the noose, trapped in his trap, staring at his beaten, hacked, his ruined hole and at his broken, pathetic, haunted snout in a loop, at his own cock piercing Tim's open wound of an ass and at Tim gnawing, it seems, on his own phalanges now, the skin and meat peeled off the bones by his own teeth.

  
Because John doesn't need any help sinking his teeth into him Tim bares his.

  
And it is not the only thing he wants to do, he also wants to sing panegyrics like that guitar that is hidden in an ugly cake that John is yet again copulating with, he wants to call John his many heavenly names, wants to extol him, to profess his many hellish feelings, but he can't, there're shattered bones in his mouth, there is blood, there're tears, it is going that well it is a bit too much for him, it would have been too much for him were he sane and concerned with safety, yet he isn't, and it's not enough for him, never enough for him, it is going so well it is just right for him, it is the very peak for him, almost the very peak for him, it is the summit and he wants to scream about his profound love from it.

"I'm fucking gonna come," he slurs out, opts for the language of the sea with some nice nuclear additions, with missiles buried there as a reminder of the war, dormant, but ready to go off at any second, and there is this other string of words he wants to say, the next part of the equation, but he can't, he is not ascetic in his last desires, he wants to say _make sure you shoot me dead before you earth me, make sure you put as many rifles as you have guitars of bullets into me, make sure I'm all holes once you're done with me, make sure I am undone or I'll crawl out, I'll crawl in, make sure you annihilate me, completely, fucking do that, now, if you will, when you will, it is your will_ , but this is way too long and he is not exactly Cicero right now, so he just howls like not exactly Cicero he is.

"Fuck, okay," John says, John's almost there too, but he's not such a proficient climber yet, not yet, he's the last sprint behind him, he needs a helping hand.

"Fucking come," John says, gives him a command and clearance, and Tim puts his helping hands on his own folded body, spreads his cheeks and digs his fingernails in, tugging, pulling at the gashed, ripped, torn skin that is already stretched around John's cock, does that and shrieks, while coming.

  
And fuck, does that make John come too.

  
Tim's blatant disregard of safety and his lacking sanity makes John flood his tortured ass with junk, and what makes him add another type of waste to it is a who, it's Tim again, Tim right now and Tim just a few days ago.

"Fucking pee on me," Tim tells John, when John comes and lets him go and looks at the picture he's presenting as, at the bloodbath of his asshole, come leaking out of it, Tim holding himself open for John to gnaw at and admire, and John does, John does pee on him, because it's Tim's house and Tim's sheets and John can live with those being filthy, and also because he still can't live with Tim's trap being equally impure, because a few days ago Tim was at his house in the morning and John was trying to convince him to brush his teeth and Tim did not obey that time, _fuck it_ , he said, _my teeth are clean enough_ , he said, _you didn't pee in my mouth at night after all_ , he said, and with that and with several more phrases uttered John peed in his mouth in the morning, and if Tim had to make some efforts to get into this, John didn't need to make a single one, because desecrating Tim and his impure trap, though there's nothing sacred about either, because doing this is very much John's thing, because he might find the production process cruel and appalling, he might wrinkle his nose in opposition to the ingredients that are being used, but the result of that is Tim on his knees, degraded, embodying submission, and that, that is exactly what John craves, and it is not the first time, that morning at John's house in the bathroom after they have an argument about oral hygiene, it's not the first time after the first time when Tim, with some help from Ginger, introduced John to the concept, John has been vandalazing Tim's mouth after that for many times, for almost as long as he's been refusing underwear, and Tim's been teasing him during those months, employing all the synonyms for _private urinal_ he could think of to define himself.

"Fucking pee on me," Tim tells John after John tells him _fucking come_ , asks John, pleads with him, and just like John's inner monster has been growing for the last months, being fed, just like that John's graces also have been increasing in size, John's speed has been soaring while John himself has been crashing down, thanks to the acceleration of the gravity of Tim's intentions, just like that John pees on him, _in_ him, _okay_ , he says, _yeah_ , he says, Tim stretches the rim of the bloodbath of his asshole with his fingers, fluttering and ululating, breath catching at every sting and there are so many, the sting's now a universal constant, he feels like he's bleeding and he's on fire, and John starts that fire and puts it out, pours acid into the flames, which only makes them burn hotter, John does him a courtesy of inundating his aching drain, both his drains, because John's piss that doesn't end up in Tim's rectum finds open-mouth welcome down Tim's howling throat, Tim's twisted shape allowing this experiment with communicating vessels, John a hydraulic press above him, descending onto him steadily, while Tim's a wavy pool of liquids underneath him, John plummetting onto him like a tombstone, and Tim's a stinky, rotting ooze in tears that's waiting for his arrival at the bottom of the pit, he's melted so much he's radioactive sludge, and if he could come while John is peeing in his beaten lacerated hole he fucking would, damn it, if only he could come, if only he could find his demise like this, if only this could be the end of him.

In the long run, John being the end of him is what he's been begging for.

It's what he's been turning John into.

  
It's after John makes a mistake in his hunting strategy, after he forgets he's stalking prey that's looking forward to being found, shot, decapitated, skinned alive, after he tells Tim _we will go dancing_ , tells him _you will wear this_ and shows him a shit ton of make up, an outfit that is made entirely of tinsel and, praise be on the ancient gods, the cock cage, tells him _this too_ , giggling and throwing a shiny butt plug at him, announcing the verdict he reached single-handedly, being both the persecutor and the judge, it's after John does that and fails magnificently at being the persecutor and the judge and, most of all, at being a cunning little devil that Tim helps him out, extending his Machiavellian hand to him, stabbing himself in the heart, it's after John loses the battle Tim helps him to win the war.

John might like designer clothes, but he is not a fucking architect, the architect's not him.

  
So John tells Tim that they'll go dancing and Tim'll look like a garish Christmas tree that is put both on a pike and behind bars, John doesn't realize that, were he to subtract the superficial elements Tim himself would gladly ditch, were he to do that, his decree would look exactly like Tim's day to day life, like Tim's holiday, like Tim's type of fun, and sure, Tim hasn't yet gone dancing with his ass stretched by a plug and his cock constricted by the cage simultaneously, but he might have, he fucking would, he's already done things that are similar so many times, his ass being stretched and his cock constricted is his whole club routine, if certain chemical elements are subtracted, so what even is it that John's dictating him to do?

Fucking enjoy himself?

Right.

  
John fails magnificently, not that there aren't any orgasms, there are, Tim wears what John puts him in and in him and dances with him, flapping his fins, John's exotic, shiny, tropical shark on a leash, John's feathery scarf around his neck, a slick butt plug in his hole, a crushed boner in his tight pants, John spinning him around in a fit of greed and boasting, showing his possessions off, John fucks him in the car once Tim loses his mind enough, once he succumbs to the tropical heat completely, his motions looking less and less like dance moves and more and more like he is trying to fuck himself on the butt plug in the middle of the dance floor, which he is, the crowd John's been sticking his tongue out at staring at Tim, Tim thinking he's so doing this again, thinking this is how he's going to go clubbing from now on and till forever, thinking that he already has enough charisma to make the whole club want to fuck him, but looking like he is already getting fucked makes his chances even better, John drags him out of the club when Tim becomes too obscene for the eyes of strangers and fucks him in the car, putting his hand over his howling, exultant mouth Tim is spewing incoherent pleas for cock with, telling him to shut the fuck up, hammering into him and telling him to take it, to take his cock he's been begging for, which is his fatal error, because when Tim starts _taking_ things there is no stopping him, he's a gaping bottomless pit of horniness with teeth, he's been shot with as many rifles as John has guitars, he's all holes and every hole of his is fucked, that's where he is floating at while John is fucking him, John's hand pressed hard over his mouth, Tim licking at his palm and jerking up his hips, running towards John's furious, punishing, seriously rageful thrusts, and there are orgasms, orgasms happen in the car, John comes deep up Tim's accomodating rectum, trying to screw his jaws out of their residing place in Tim's boiling skull and generating sounds a butcher might make while turning living beings into mincemeat, if only their job made butchers come.

So there are orgasms, and John comes up Tim's ass, but before he does Tim comes in his golden cage on John's golden sword, and it is Tim's orgasm that's the problem.

  
An hour after Tim poses the problem he also offers a solution.

They are sitting at a table in McDonalds, and John is sucking a milkshake through a straw, and it is a minor miracle there is reduction in its level in the glass, because John's lips are in such a thin, pouting, discontented line no liquid can snake its way between them.

But Tim can.

Tim's no liquid, he is radiation, and John isn't made of lead.

"Hey, what's up?" Tim asks, looking at John's moody face John wouldn't allow him the full view of. "Why are you sulking? Weren't you amused?"

John squints at him sideways and doesn't even indulge him with an answer.

"Hey, come on," Tim insists. "Tell me what upsets your stomach. Haven't I done everything you told me? Did I miss something? Did I spoil anything for you?"

He's all about bringing joy and satisfaction, isn't he.

John turns to look at him, studies his white flag of a face, a huge sign saying _impose your terms on me_ written in bold font on it.

"You..." John starts.

What upsets John's stomach is its hollow state.

What upsets John's stomach is a bellyfull in Tim's.

"Yeah?" Tim urges him.

"You were enjoying this too much," John says.

  
Tim's grin reaches opposing walls and breaks outside through the windows.

 _Imagine_ , Tim thinks. _Just imagine how much I am enjoying **this.**_

  
"Oh," Tim says. 

"Sorry?" Tim snorts out. 

"You do know that I adore getting fucked," Tim explains himself.

"Well, it wasn't supposed to be about you," John responds.

Tim chuckles.

"Greedy little sadist," he says, even though John's not so little anymore, and John's greed... John's greed is Tim's whole universe. "Alright. If it wasn't supposed to be about me, then your masterplan had a major flaw."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tim nods. "The butt plug should've gone up your pretty ass. So next time..."

John frowns.

"Why?" he says. "How is that going to make anything better? I want you---"

 _Oh, I know what you want_ , Tim thinks.

 _You want me on my knees and at your feet, you want to hold me by my throat, you want the whole world to see that I am yours, that I am nothing, nothing in comparison to you, you want me to admit that, to bow my fucked up head to you, you want me to be ruined by your hand_ , Tim thinks.

"I want you to wear it," John says.

 _You want what you already have_ , Tim thinks.

"I want you to suffer," John says.

 _You idiot_ , Tim thinks.

"Oh, I will," Tim says. "I'll wear it too. We'll both wear them. It'll be cool, you'll see."

  
The next weekend John sees an outfit that is made entirely of tinsel and a shit ton of make up that Tim bought for him and genuinely jumps and genuinely claps his hands.

Later, when they are already at the club, Tim wearing his regular clothes that have long lost their affiliation to whoever was their first proprietor and that now live in a commune of Tim's and Ginger's house, John wearing tinsel, feathers, lipstick and mascara, the four items not enough to cover his body properly, by far, because the outfit Tim bought for him wasn't meant for that, both of them wearing butt plugs like two anally disposed and horny mirrors, later they are dancing, well, trying to, and John isn't jumping any longer.

John is doing things that are much better, filthy, positively obscene things, John's moving like that snake that infiltrated heavens, hot, vibrating lava right next to Tim, licking his skin, his neck, his jawline and his ears, tugging at the scarf around his neck and at his confined erection, because Tim's decorated with the cage again, and Tim thinks that if when he himself was in John's position, if that looked at least somewhat close to how it looks right now, it must have been a supernatural phenomenon of the most major scale that their night out at the club didn't terminate in the most massive orgy at the club, because today, it seems, it is about to, because Tim can't take his eyes off John and he is not the only one, because everyone is staring, because John looks intoxicating and intoxicated, even though he, probably, is the only sober person there, but he is, he's poisoned with Tim's flesh, with Tim's suffering he's swallowing and fuck, Tim _is_ suffering, Tim's fingers are in John's vulgar, lipstick covered mouth, John's fingers fucking his, they are fucking sixty nining with their hands while they are dancing, John checking up on his caged cock from time to time, Tim's eyes rolling back on every such occasion, Tim feeling like he's about to come in his and Ginger's pants, knowing that in reality he won't, he's painfully aware of what is waiting for him in the future, it isn't premonition, he's creating it, their shared future, he's building the sacred site of prayer, _want you to fuck me_ , John breathes into his ear he's just been licking, and he fucking looks like he is already being fucked, like he is being fucked by that cake with a guitar as filling were cakes suitable for fucking, and Tim himself too looks like he is being fucked, there is a fucking, fucking, fucking butt plug in his ass, but also, also he looks like he is fucked and he is fucked, he's so, so, so fucked.

He's ruined by John's greedy fucking hole.

  
John drags him out of the club just in time to save the crowd there from becoming criminals, hustles him inside the car and takes the cage off his already incarcerated cock that couldn't get erect, but now can and does, John frees himself - but not Tim - off the plug and gets on top of him.

"You don't get to come," John informs him, and oh, he knows.

How could he expect any less if everything he wants is more.

John lowers himself on Tim's cock with a whine and moves, throws his head back in a few seconds, grabs Tim's throat with both his hands and moves and fuck.

_Fuck._

That isn't helping.

But, of course, Tim isn't looking for help of any sort, he longs to be shot, decapitated, skinned alive, and also he's beyond any fucking help and it's beyond endurance, almost, fucking almost too much to bear, but, of course, it isn't, it's always _give me all or give me nothing_ with him, so he's capable of carrying this heavy nothing, he wants nothing, nothing else from John, just John seeing him as nothing, that's all he wants and that's what he gets while John gets him on his knees and at his feet.

And in his ass, denied orgasming.

"Fuck, John," Tim says, when John tells him that he can't come, that's all he says, he could've said he hasn't yet bought that cock ring that would make things easier for him, he could've said there is a fucking buttplug in his ass and that John's ass is on his cock, but why would he, he accepts his fate, he knew it would be like this all along, so he doesn't, he just grits out _fuck, John_ and surrenders, and John smiles at him, all freshly formed, sharp, little juvenile monster teeth, squeezes his throat - and his poor cock - and then says _move_ and fuck.

_Fuck._

Never enough, ha.

So they both move, John moves and Tim does too, Tim fucks him, that is what John wanted, throws his hips up and suffers gloriously each time he lands, the butt plug drilling holes in him, John clenching on him and his hand around his throat, Tim thinks of... shit, Tim thinks he'll come, he starts summing large numbers up in his bowed head, but that isn't helping, because when there is maths, there's always Ginger, and that, fuck, that would make him come and now everything is sexy, hot and melting, the door handle he is gripping, the sound of his butt wriggling on the seat, the fucking molecules of oxygen around them - and there is a shortage - the blurry corners of his vision, _everything_ , and not to mention John, because if he mentioned John he'd come, John holds him by his throat and were the whole world inclined to spy on them through the windows of the car they would no doubt see that Tim is his, that he is nothing in comparison, that he is ruined by John's hole, that he is fucked, he's so fucked.

The universe grows old before John comes or doesn't, Tim isn't counting, mustn't think of maths and mustn't come, but then John comes, beautifully, beautiful as always, nails digging into the skin of Tim's constricted throat, his own throat full of Tim's poison, neck arched back, he isn't even looking at the ruined nothing he has ruined, it's Tim whose eyes are glued to him, though, probably, they shouldn't be, because John's tempting and what John's tempting him to do is come, but anyway, John comes and Tim doesn't and he would, he would fucking come right there if he only could.

He can't.

And that's the point.

  
Another point is - John doesn't stop, and that's another point _to_ him, he has won, John doesn't stop, John's happy and content, there isn't any pouting or whining, he just drives home Tim's tortured body with Tim's stiff-in-death cock that Tim thinks might stay hard forever after this and scientists will name the unfortunate condition after him, John drives Tim home and informs him, while Tim's exiting the car on unsteady feet, that Tim can't come.

"Huh?" Tim asks.

"Yeah," John says. "You don't come. And you don't jerk off. You don't fuck. And put the cage on."

"Oh," Tim says. "For how long?"

  
_For how long_ , Tim asks and John says nothing.

  
Just shrugs and tilts his head and smiles his coy fucking smile at him.

  
And sure, it can't be _that_ long, because okay, Ginger's gone for now, but he'll come back, he'll get inside their house with his soft, scared hands and with his soft, warm, delicious lips and with his kissing, hugging, his _I missed you_ , with that huge sign that says EAT ME in capital letters he always shows to Tim, so it is just inevitable that Tim'll come, down Ginger's gulping throat or in his hole or in his fist watching the two kissing moaning bastards sucking each other's cocks or on Ginger's awesome cock or in his fucking pants while standing in the bathroom watching Ginger, because there is no way he won't end up in there, because he's always there, because why not, because Ginger _asks_ him to join him, because it's just a thing they do together now, so sure, it simply can't be _that_ long even if Tim delays devouring the squid on purpose, it won't be forever, but fuck him if that'll stop him from dreaming, he's allowed that, and this condition, oh, this one is definitely solely his, he won't stay hard till he dies - he knows an ancient god or two who could be credited with this type of malady - he won't get hard at all, he won't be able to, he'll be caged, put on a leash, captured, shot, decapitated, skinned alive, he'll find his demise at John's cruel hand and that's just his destiny, it is his own providence, his own cruel hand.

Though it is John's hand that he kisses, smirking, kneeling on the concrete next to the car.

"Fuck off," John tells him then and he does.

  
Day one arrives the next day and Tim doesn't come.

Tim puts on the cage, locks it on his cock once he is able to fit it in, once it is no longer stiff and horny ancient god, does he have to wait for that, Tim puts it on and John pulls it off, John pays him a visit, checks up on him and his incarcerated cock and gets on it, of course, he fucking gets on it, that's why he comes there, to fucking come, to come and to prohibit Tim the same, as if Tim's stupid and thinks he could disobey, as if Tim doesn't know that he must submit to John's every whim, as if this framework isn't one of Tim's, but anyway, John visits him, sits on his cock and fucks himself and whines and comes.

Tim doesn't come.

  
Then day two comes and Tim... Well, Tim fucking doesn't.

And also there is again a butt plug in his hole, which is John's pure sadism and simply must be illegal and a horrendous crime and so magnificently ruthless that Tim wants to clap his hands for John.

And to come.

  
Then it is day three and there is no butt plug in Tim's hole, there is a goddamn dildo and not just any dildo, it's _Ginger's severed tentacle_ , _you sneaky little fucker_ , Tim greets John while opening the door, John, his tinsel and the dildo, _I'll fucking come on that_ , Tim says, _no_ , John objects, _you won't_ , and that is simply unbelievable, but Tim really doesn't.

Tim has John on his cock and a token Ginger in his hole and he missed both, the severed tentacle and the real squid behind the symbol, and John he doesn't miss, John he begs.

Just a little, but he does.

He doesn't come even a little.

  
Day four - Tim cries.

John's arrangement for the day's the same, the cage - it's taken off - the dildo and John's fucking hole, no nice additions, but it's day _four_ , day four of John's pure sadism, so Tim is close, close to fucking dying there, thus he cries, he begs, he doesn't come.

He says _John, please_ , but doesn't come.

Which is no surprise to him, because when pleading was enough. 

Pleading is abetment.

  
Day five - Tim almost asks John _what is your problem with explosive weapons, what do you have against nuclear warheads bringing mass destruction_ , almost asks him if he torn wings off fucking party poppers as a child, because surely, something must have damaged him to make him so wicked, but he doesn't, it's no something, it is _him_ , he simply cries and begs and chokes - John chokes him - and chokes John's name out and talks about love as if he's _gelignite_ , which, truth to be told, he is, he is discarded shark goo with shattered teeth, _you do fucking understand I jerk off about you strangling me_ , he asks John, panting, half of the phonemes lost, _yeah_ , John says, nods, rocks his obnoxious hips, John rides him and strangles him, _what if I come_ , Tim asks, he really wonders, he is close, _close_ , he wants to know what's on the other side of the goddamn white tunnel he's seeing, clear as daylight, as that shiny creature that's glowing on top of him, as that goddamn angel that tells him _you won't come._

So Tim doesn't come.

Tim almost, fucking almost comes, but he doesn't.

  
Day six is John's final triumph.

John makes Tim come, come to his place, drive to his house and then stretch himself, put the severed tentacle inside his ass and take the cock cage off and lube the prisoner, prepare it for John who also has stretched himself, prepare to be used, Tim does all of that, of course, he's sitting on the couch with a dildo up his ass and he is driven mad, he hasn't come since the Middle Ages and John is lowering himself on his stiff cock, John's hand finds its way onto his throat, it snakes around it, squeezes, John moves, he rocks his hips, tight, hot, amazing, greedy on Tim's cock, pulls at Tim's lips, at his teeth, ravages his mouth while strangling him and fucking himself on him, head thrown back, without looking, taking no care of him, just cruel fingers on Tim's throat, like a vice, and cruel fingers in Tim's mouth, seizing the insides, pressing on his tongue, collecting blood and pathetic bursts of air that Tim's denied, just John's tight, hot, amazing ass clenching around his cock, John sliding up and down rhythmically, just Tim being all his and being nothing, crying, needless to say, he's crying, he'd be begging if John wasn't wreaking havoc on his oral cavity and he'd be coming if he could, but he can't, he can't and then John slaps him, slaps his face, Tim gets slapped across his fucking face and still doesn't get to come.

"John, fuck, John," he slurs out, flapping his tongue between John's careless fingers, between the thrusts between his lips, he means _please let me come_ , he slurs what he can out and John looks at him, all blurry eyes, obscene, insatiable, indulged, laughing, laughing in his face and slapping it.

Tim begs John to come and John just slaps him in response.

  
That is a no.

  
Tim begs again.

  
That is a sincere suicide and Tim wants both, to beg and to be refused, to die right there at John's feet, John says _shut up_ , John tells him no, John fucks himself on him, his hole a ring of burning lava on his cock, John slaps his face, slaps him every time Tim utters phrases and Tim does, he's no Rome's greatest orator, but he has to speak, _has to_ , it isn't only John's name that he keeps repeating and not just _fucks_ , though them he emits as often as exhales, he says many other things, he talks, turning inside out, he says _I'm nothing, I am yours, I'm nothing in comparison to you, please, kill me, strangle me, skin me alive, destroy me, I am at your feet, I'm dirt under your boots_ , he pushes his confession out, both sins and love, _do what you want with me_ , he says, _anything you want, I am your nothing_ , Tim tells John, John laughs at him, shakes, shatters, horrible, alien obsidian from outer space, _shut up_ , he says and slaps him, _every_ time, _you don't get to come_ , he says and slaps him, that isn't even no help, that is obstruction, interference, that's termination, _shut up and slap yourself_ , John hisses, both his hands on Tim's constricted throat, his hands a noose, the landslide of his body crushing Tim, every particle of Tim, nuclei splitting in his chest, and Tim shuts up and slaps himself, Tim cries and howls and makes his face into a mishmash of blood and tears and bruises, John slapped him good, splendid, each blow orgasmic, any blow would've been enough to finish him were he allowed finishing, and he slaps bad, slaps nasty, his hand's a warhead, it is mad, he couldn't slow it down if he wanted to and he doesn't, he undoes himself for John and John stares down at him, looks at him, _sees_ him, now he does see him, even though there is not a single thing to see for he is nothing, he's undone.

John is falling into pieces too, his fingers around Tim's howling throat vibrating, oscillating, radiation ripping through him, transmogrifying him, he's coming, clenching on Tim's cock, holding him, staring down at him, devouring his wet, pathetic eyes with his exultant ones, he's seeing him, seeing the abyss, he knows him and he defeats him, he takes all Tim is giving him and Tim gives him everything, all and nothing.

  
Tim cannot stop.

  
It's John who stops him, first John comes, horrible and beautiful, then he gets up, gets off Tim's cock, sways, stands looming over Tim on unsteady feet, catches his hand Tim keeps launching towards his own face, John stops him to relish the results.

The results are trembling underneath him, still howling, hysterical, legs wobbly, cock persecuted, red, hole stuffed full and chafed, eyes leaking tears, throat purple, face pure chaos, beaten, smashed, torn off the skull, nuclear reactor black, burnt out, turned into ashes, into radioactive smoke, helpless and dissolving in the air, mind lost, name wiped out, essence decimated, canceled, swept away.

John abandons them.

  
John leaves the empty room.

  
Then he comes back, a folded belt in his right hand, he puts his other hand on the incandescent skull, pulls at the hair, bending over, looking into the void.

"Come," he says, slamming the belt into the tortured cock, fist tight around it, another fist holding the scalp, pulling the head up, and two other hands spring to life or rather just get propelled, one of them is on the purple throat, attempting to collapse it, another in the wounded mouth, it pulls it open, bares the teeth and tongue and all of the insides, the sounds, howls, moans, exhales, molecules of air, useless phonemes, unprotected, naked gas that is escaping through the atmosphere, fading away from the nuclear reactor, and hips, the shaking, sweaty hips are on the move as well, and the excoriating kernel is being pushed deeper in the hole with every quaking jump, the cock John's slapping with a belt is thawing and melting, mellowing, and the eyes, the eyes have turned into a liquid too, they are tears, they are unseeing, rolled back, obliterated by the grandeur looming over them.

John says _come_ and slaps the breaking tissue and sets the parts in motion and then they disintegrate in fission and then there is ascent.

  
John vacates the room again.

  
It's later, much, much later, when there is Tim again, when Tim is standing on the balcony, leaning on the doorpost, a cigarette hanging off his lips, eyes travelling from one unimportant thing to the next, it's only then that John returns.

John puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, standing exceptionally close to him.

"Hey," he says. "I'm gonna play, okay?"

"Uh-huh," Tim breathes out along with smoke.

"Can you cook something, though?" John asks. "I feel like I could eat a whole house."

More like a whole universe.

"Sure," Tim says, Tim finishes his cigarette, brings John's hand up to his lips, kisses John's celestial fingertips one by one and goes to John's obnoxious kitchen and cooks in there, while John molests the strings.

"Eat," Tim says, Tim finishes making dinner and watches as John sits down, brings the fork up to his lips and chews, moaning with his mouth full and beaming, and the pitch black, toxic, lethal vacuum in his chest is smiling, smiling, smiling.

They are one.

  
And what are you, Tim?

  
It's after Tim does what Tim does best.

It's after Tim spends a whole week being a monster.

It's after Tim hurts Ginger, once again hurts Ginger, and faces no consequences, no ban forbidding him entering the ocean.

It's after Tim has a talk with John.

  
Yeah, now the two of them talk too.

Wild.

  
Tim's standing by the window, looking outside, at trivia of John's neighbourhood, but seeing something else, seeing the broken up reflection of his own face, a glimpse of rotten, cold, coiling things inside his chest, he's looking through the glass, but he ends up seeing what he is.

Peripheral fucking vision.

  
And John, John is sitting on the bed.

  
There is no guitar in John's sacramented hands.

  
There's meaning in his pose, though, most of his body parts are chatty at the moment, his shoulders, neck, his lips which he keeps biting, his angry chin, his furrowed brow.

He sits there on the bed as disappointment.

  
He hates him.

  
John hates him.

  
John shakes his head.

Tim sees it too in the reflective surface he's bound to examine.

John sighs.

"You know, I hate you so much, Tim," John then says. "I hate you."

Tim makes a quiet, peaceful sound.

Fucking serene.

"Yeah," he says. 

That's no wonder. 

John'd disliked him from the start. And then Tim gave him so many reasons to absolutely loathe him.

John bites his lips.

"What you did to him..." he says.

It's been that type of a discussion.

Well, first there was a threat of throttling, rage, frustration, narrowed eyes and clenching fists, emotional fatigue and apathy, Tim smoked, John paced, they cried, they started talking, John's been asking questions, John's been listening, Tim has confessed and they have cried.

Comprehension's pain.

"I..." John says. "I understand that."

Oh, that he now does.

"Why you did it," John says. "I do. But." 

Tim sees the corner of his own eye out of the corner of his own eye.

"You had no right, Tim," John spits out.

Oh, he knows.

  
"You had no fucking right."

Tim sees his alien, unfamiliar lips moving, parting slightly, a glimpse of teeth, facial muscles at work.

A decadent picture of his features imprinted on the soccer mom SUV parked a bit further down the street.

"Yeah," Tim says.

  
They hold their positions through the pause that happens next.

  
"And what you did to me..." John says.

A hissing, low, creeping menace who wears mascara.

  
Tim beat him at his own game.

  
"Yeah," Tim says.

A raspy, breathy, balanced sound, almost sedate.

  
That must have stung.

  
The bed voices John's shifting too, creating waves spreading through the air, hitting Tim's ears.

He turns away from him even more.

  
As if there is a point to it now.

  
"I fucking hate you," he says. "I want you dead."

  
Tim stares at his own reflection, in his own eyes.

His own foreign eyes, the SUV, a water stain on the surface of the glass, the glass itself.

The depth of layers.

  
He doesn't say anything.

  
"I want to hurt you," John says, speaks instead of him. 

  
Tim doesn't see his eyeballs moving when he is moving them.

Down, to the left.

  
He listens carefully.

  
"Really hurt you," John says.

  
Tim turns around, looks at John's conflicted figure on the bed.

"Yeah?" he asks.

John turns his head and looks at him.

"Yeah," he says.

A dare.

"Yes," he says.

An ache.

"More than you like," he says.

He swallows hard before he says it.

  
That is justice.

  
Tim smiles, chuckles, quiet, a bit bitter, dry blood covering the insides of his throat.

"Finally," he says.

  
Tim wraps John's supernal hand in a strip of fabric he has torn off his own shirt, carefully covering the knuckles, divine nature of the fingers he's touching very clear to him.

John worries his lips.

John worries, Tim feels inner vibration emanating from him, subtle quakes going through his body at the contact.

He's crumbling.

"All good," Tim says, finishing his task, and pats John's insulated hand, smiling, taking a glance at John's facial fret. "Now let me coach you on anatomy."

He takes John's other hand and puts it on the atlas of his skin.

"Say hello to the spleen," he says, placing John's fingers over the tissue. "Liver." Moving them. "Kidneys." Chess pieces. "My overstuffed guts." Or just radioactive grains of minerals, because fuck playing games. "And you know the ribs."

When he looks at John, though he always looks at him, the picture that he sees is breaking out of its frame. Sure, John doesn't look the way he does when he or Ginger or his many other idolaters lay sparkly things before his feet. 

Tim's only sparkly in that he's explosive.

He's no birthday gift.

But John accepts him, takes him, and there is that uncertain feeling that's written on his face, it's not denial, they have worked long enough on that, John knows that birthday gifts aren't the only thing he wants, he wants whatever it is Tim is, he wants to really hurt him, wants him dead, and it's not his stupid fear of covert demons having wild parties beneath the surface, within the confines of the marble walls, it's not that stupid feeling, fear or disapproval or rejection of the deadly lava in an attempt to cleanse oneself, it simply isn't, John now knows those demons' names, they are no longer hidden, it isn't a desire to flee, though there might be such impulse still lurking somewhere in there, close to the common sense, but it is not, there's nowhere to run right now, not anymore, it's funny, really is, but it is more like worried admiration, well, maybe not exactly, admiration is way too strong a word, it could be respect, understanding or acknowledgment, John looks back at him, clearly disturbed by what is going on, but nodding his assent nevertheless.

John knows what is going to happen and what that means and what that makes them and says _yes._

Fucking alignment, despite the wavering Tim hears in this short syllable of John's concurrence with him.

"If you feel like kicking, shins would be the best option," Tim continues. "If I'm standing, that is." These aren't _limits_ that he's listing here, after all. "And careful with the head. Like, aim for the larger bones and secure it before punching, because my neck is not entirely trustworthy." These are just directions, arrows drawn on the map. "I've no expertise on kneeing, but feel free to do it at your own discrection."

"Okay," John says, voice dry.

He might not find this all as amusing as Tim does. 

But then again, that's about to change any second.

  
Four seconds pass, and Tim starts the execution, he briefly thinks of throwing his arms open, but discards this blatantly theatrical idea, because it just doesn't fit, though under different circumstances he might've done it, he plants his feet firmly on the floor, taking a wider stance, holding a more stable position, and puts his hands behind his back, lifting up his chin a bit, signaling that he's ready.

  
John's knuckles greet his spleen.

  
Now, Tim could've had concerns during the exercise, because there were some before it, they weren't his, all of them were John's, but he's the one who must alleviate them, yet he has absolutely no worries - and also no thoughts that are worth calling that - in the course of those ten or fifteen or five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes that John spends beating the living daylights out of him. It is somewhat like that time when he managed to pull some delightful waterboarding out of John, back when he still had to bend over backwards to have a hugging session with John's demons, back when John needed rules to rule him, there are no plots inside his head or anywhere else within his body, it can get no rest and thus can't keep a hold of them, and every mental shard that's flying through his brain is kicked out of him almost momentarily.

Tim drools saliva mixed with blood, with real blood, because of course he bleeds, John aiming for the larger bones and softer tissue, slapping him and punching him, not stingy about his blows in the slightest, Tim yelps and hisses, barks like a demented shark, and it is not because John's blows aren't heavy enough for him to scream, it's because the two of them spiral down in a rapid manner, because John punches, kicks and smacks him so often he simply has no time to inhale oxygen, he chokes and coughs as if he's being throttled and otherwise he would've screamed, gladly, but he can't, his head is restless and his breath is hitching, so he grunts and stutters in his howling, trying to swallow the bloody drool. 

Tim is in pain.

Tim doesn't like it.

John beats the living daylights out of him, it's kind of fast, but also it lasts forever, for a whole year, and each minute of it is pure torture, it kind of drags, as if John's divine knuckles wrapped in the soft fabric of Tim's expired shirt - probably it's one of Ginger's - as if they drown in his flesh, as if he is a pool of quicksand, but one that is abused by a pissed off traveller wearing boots he's stolen from him and mascara, it feels like John's hands stay inside his meat and bones forever, like those blows dissipate according to the randomly determined process of nuclear decay, it feels like pain's a universal constant, he's floating in it and the waters aren't tranquil, he's caught in the tempest, thrown around by the waves, puny, insignificant and helpless, John's fist limbering his body violently, crushing him, meeting every one of his internal organs and forming toxic relationships with them, kicking Tim's overstuffed guts in such a way Tim feels it's not only the warheads that are bursting at the moment inside of him, in a way that really hurts, that almost, fucking almost breaks him, John throws perfect punches and they aren't birthday gifts, of course, Tim doesn't care for that, they are more like Tim's last supper, and he does devour horrors, pain's his daily bread, and he is in so much of it.

  
Neither one of them is hard.

  
It's not to say their exercise's displeasing, though it no doubt _is_ for Tim - in a sense - it is just throbbing ache that he feels with every atom in his body for him, and for John, actually, for John it's also very unlike getting that cake with a guitar serving as a filling, which is his regular demand, it's getting what he wants - for Tim it's getting what he had coming - and getting what you wished for isn't always nice and fluffy and agreeable, it, beating Tim, just must feel right for him like it feels right for Tim, like it must have stung when Tim was beating him at every game, it is as right as that was wrong.

But it is not to say that either one of them longs to stop.

There is no stopping, there is just John Tim tries to look at and fails every time, there's John who breaks him, John knees him in the face and in the guts, John punches him in the lower jaw until it feels like it's made of bruises, he doesn't fracture any ribs and leaves his nose intact, but splits his lips and makes him swallow blood, he kicks the air out of his lungs with every blow, reaches within his spleen and liver and his kidneys, he casts him onto the floor, accelerating his descent with a downfall of impacts on his back and shoulders in a show of initiative, he kicks his guts with those boots he stole from him and also his cock and thighs and just whatever piece of meat there is on his infuriated way, he leaves Tim no chance to get up and unbend and be a statue on his knees and look at him, but Tim still tries.

There's no place where he can run away, but there is a creature he can run towards.

  
He ends up on the floor after a full year of being beaten, he's coughing, retching there, there's blood and bruises and abrasions littering his skin, making a mess out of him, and every particle of him is screaming for him, he's just gurgling, splashing out ragged breaths, he's almost, fucking almost broken, that's how much pain he's in, he feels hysterical, ready to call for help - he won't - and pray for the grace of death - that's all he's been doing, well, apart from being a horrendous monster - his eyes are wet and he's soaked himself, he's shaking, howling in a muffled voice, subdued, John finishes him off with a fast sequence of sword motions, throws a punch in his already shattered face, and bends him, brings him down with a blow on his back, his untrustworthy wooden shoulders, he kicks his heaving stomach with his boot, once, twice and once again and then he pushes, he discards him, and Tim lands on his elbow and his palm, chafes both of them and both his knees, again, they are already open wounds, Tim retches, cries and shakes, Tim ends up on the floor.

He gathers what little he has left of him, pulls his body upwards, slowly, fighting the tremors, he turns to John, stands on his knees, he lifts his chin and looks at him.

  
It's not the end.

  
It can't be the end, why would it be the end, when John is looming over him, John's panting, shaking too, as if he's spent a whole year assaulting the quicksand, as if he is going to continue any second and he will, because it is not enough, he needs to up the game, though this is no game, he needs more suffering to vent his anger because there is an almost limitless supply of it in him, because Tim's been providing him with reasons to despise him for more than seven years, it's been more than seven years since Tim functioned as a presenter of birthday gifts who are alive, in love and can't say no, and during all those more than seven years Tim was nothing but a throbbing ache both to the gift and to the birthday boy, so obviously just beating him half broken is not enough, John's going to beat him dead.

Well, almost, fucking almost dead.

Tim gathers all his strength to face him and John stains his face with spit.

Crazy, but that also stings.

"Garbage," John says. "You are a piece of fucking garbage."

That too.

  
Tim closes his eyes briefly, breathing in and out slowly, letting it soak, letting it inside, into his every splitting atom, and opens them again.

He knows that John is getting more.

He takes his hand.

  
John always needed guidance.

  
Tim straightens up, standing on his knees in front of John, and takes his hand, opening his beaten, bleeding mouth, and shoves his fingers in, deep inside, down his throat, and urges him to push.

  
He fucking _hates_ vomiting.

  
John does, John pushes on the back of his tongue, staring down at him, and Tim's eyes water and he retches, his lunchbreak coffee mixed with whatever bullshit he managed to consume rising up and choking him, because he fights it, he can't help himself, it's fucking vomit, it's his enemy, he hates it, it's abhorrent, so he fights it and then he loses it, loses the battle, John pressing hard, so he spews out his lunchbreak coffee and his bullshit and the acid and his guts, and all of it leaves an ugly taste on his tongue that is contracting under John's cruel fingers, Tim's dangling on them, trying to exhale, still not fully broken.

  
More.

  
"Again," he says, and John shoves his fingers even deeper, stretching his lacerated lips, thrusting his way in, and fucking bile finds its way out, rushing towards the gates while Tim is outright convulsing there in a fucking seizure, turning inside out, and there isn't much stuff that's left inside of him that's palpable, the acid coffee is now gone, it's running down his chin onto his chest, Tim's open wounds letting out hisses, it is just bile with some grains of minerals that hurt the tissue of his soft palate coming out, and this is painful, this is torture.

  
More.

  
"Again," he says, and John repeats his motion, stuffing his digestive system, forcing his way in just like before he was forced down it, Tim choking while swallowing the last of him, and at the same time John empties him, his stomach's now empty and contracting, the inner walls collapsing on themselves, so he lets out silent howls, lets out pain that is rupturing him in half, and this is agony, these are his death pangs.

  
More.

  
"Again," he doesn't say, he can't form phonemes anymore, he makes a feeble sound, begging and pathetic, and John stirs his fingers in his throat, pushing his head deeper on them with his hand wrapped in Ginger's ruined shirt, shifting inside of him, tearing his way out with thorns made from obsidian, inflicting as much damage as he can while leaving his residing place, while leaving _him_ , and Tim's consciousness abandons him as well, the whole hemisphere of his brain is gone, he is pure misery and this is his afterlife, that is what comes next.

  
More.

  
"Again," he doesn't say, he cannot even howl, can't breathe, can't do anything, he is no longer present, he is nothing, he's simply hanging loosely off John's fingers, a sheath for John's sword that has been turned inside out, an empty shell, and John rips every single thing out of him, John pushes his fingers down his throat once again, on his own, he crushes him, annihilates him, he finally, finally, fucking finally he breaks him.

  
John has enough of him.

  
John kicks him in the stomach after Tim stops going through spasms on his fingers, sharp and ruthless and aloof, indifferent to Tim's fate or feelings, John brings him to the floor in a succession of several rough strikes, and Tim stays lying there, wailing, hiccuping and trembling, folded upon himself, expecting to be done with, to be pulled under water and disposed of in there, for he is garbage, anticipating that to happen any second, because this isn't an unfamiliar situation to him, because he's one with John and he's been in his boots John stole from him, he's occupied his place and now he's living through the opposite experience, the one that he forced on another being, though with somewhat different tools, he didn't turn him inside out by kicking him when he was standing on his knees before him, though he could've done that too, he did it by asking him a question, by asking him what it is he wants from him, and he knows how that felt, he feels the same right now, he is a crying, shaking, disgusting goo that only waits to be wiped out.

  
"Fuck," John exhales and sits down next to him.

  
John pulls his head onto his lap.

  
John holds him.

  
"You're a fucking monster, Tim," John says. 

His voice is breaking.

"I..." John says. "Fuck. I forgive you."

Tim looks at him.

"I still fucking forgive you," John says.

John is crying.

"I know," Tim forces out.

John's tears are on his face as well.

"Thank you," Tim says. "I... I'm... Thank you."

John shuts his eyes tight.

"Yeah," he says, sound waning.

John is crying.

"Come here," Tim says, and John lies down next to him, lies beside him on the bottom of the pit, clinging to him with his whole sweaty, shaking, wired body, even though there is no need.

Tim pulls him closer.

Tim is holding him.

"Are you okay?" John asks quietly a bit later, Tim's neck he's pressed his face to muffling the soft sound of his voice.

"Yeah," Tim says, his arms in a tight circle around him. "I guess. Donno. I think I might need a check up."

"Okay," John says, and intertwines even more with him.

  
Tim copes, so there is no check up, and between these instances that occur after or before some other curious events there are many extra acts and deeds and episodes, the whole story doesn't take place at once, now, does it, so this time, when Tim is lying broken there on the floor with John, he doesn't need a check up, he pulls through without it, but there is so much more to come.


	20. Go, baby, go

  
"I want you to torture the shit out of me," Tim says.

  
So the belt is John's. And a bit dusty. It was located by Tim behind the bookcase. 

The crocodile clamps, fourteen of them, all hanging off a cord he's wrapped around his finger to spin them in the air, flaunting his equally predatory teeth, are his. And brand new. And shiny. They were spotted by him at the store just two hours ago, they sort of smiled and winked at him when he was emerging from his pensive coma that'd been induced by the cans of beans he'd been observing in an attempt to answer the big questions posed by the universe - who am I, where am I heading and what do I cook for dinner. The clamps greeted him, poking out their toothy snouts from behind the garden hose bundle, and since then multiple decisions have been made.

The weird bright green spiky tube - a massage roller - is Ginger's and offensive and has already caused two delightful incidents. 

First, it was brought home by Ginger who'd received it as a fucking gift and subsequently thought it was a good idea to bring it home instead of throwing it away into the nearest trashcan. _Desecration_. Then, it was discovered. Tim was insulted. _Disrespect._

"For you _back_?" Tim asked, making a face at Ginger's explanations of why the weird bright green spiky tube is now sitting on the shelf way too close to the essentials - the empty beer bottles and the vacant peanut bags. "Are you fucking kidding me? You've got both my heartless hands if you want painful crushing, haven't you?"

Then Ginger mumbled that his distant relatives weren't really aware of that, but that they were aware of his back problems and that the spiky tube's a gift, which makes it impolite to throw it away and also they, the distant relatives, would probably ask about it the next time or on the phone and that would be awkward and that he didn't mean that Tim's heartless - he actually said _heartless_ and then blushed - hands weren't enough for him and so on, and Tim laughed, pushing him closer and closer to the wall, cornering him, and when Ginger stopped, his problematic back pressed to it, his body tense, facial expression nervous, eyes a little scared, throat white and twitching as he gulped, when Tim trapped him and he was awaiting the onslaught, Tim smiled and kissed his pulse.

Tim hugged him.

"Fuck, squid," Tim said, hugging Ginger. "I'm so happy you're home again." Tim kissed the anxious laughter off his lips and cupped his face, looking at him. "Want a back rub?"

The back rub Ginger couldn't say no to turned into a bit of impromptu butchering, Ginger undressed, touched, aroused and made into goo, Tim distracted by his vertebrae, counting them and digging his fingers into the flesh around them and menacingly licking them and addressing the issue of their existence, whispering in Ginger's ear while his heartless hands turned him into mashed bullshit on their own, knowing their trade, Ginger shifting in his seat and sweating, jumping, crying out and shaking and almost falling, asking Tim to fucking hold him, Tim scooping the jelly with his palms he'd used to grind him, pliers being mentioned, back pain eliminated, Ginger's whining mouth stuffed with Tim's cock. _Jerk off and suck_ , Tim said, his fingers spread wide on the back of Ginger's neck he'd said he dreamt of snapping, collecting shivers, the vertebra prominens right under the center of his palm, Ginger's head pulled up without efforts or instructions, face turned to him, Ginger jerking off, a helpless sack of plasma on the chair underneath him, mouth open, pliant, soft, Tim sliding in and out, fucking him like he had fucked him up, his hand sliding up and down his spinal column obsessively, blood running out of Tim's mouth, the flow strong enough to sweep him off his feet. Tim's come ran out of Ginger's mouth too, that's how happy Tim was to see him, Tim wiped his chin and made him lick the fingers, he pulled his mouth open and watched him bring himself to orgasm too, watched him come, watched him closely.

"Oh, aren't you glad to be home too," he said, bending, pressing his forehead to Ginger's, winking at him, teeth bared, Ginger just a stain of squid shit smearing the chair underneath him, Ginger his personal, his own gift. "Oh, you so are."

He saw everything he wanted.

  
He didn't see the dildos, though they are also his, but that's a tale of later. The tale of now is another massage roller incident, Tim found it again, but in the box and dusty, under the bed, the couch or the table, somewhere on the floor, _what the fuck is that_ , he said, pulling it closer to inspect, and then the box was opened, Ginger turning red and apologizing, Tim laughing like a maniac and smirking, nasty, thanks to the box.

"I'm... Sorry, I didn't, you know... I would've thrown it..." Ginger stuttered.

Tim laughed, studying the box.

"Hey," he said, smirking. "Do you know it's actually for children?"

yogurt

tahini

cumin, coriander

lemon

syrup

pomegranate

"What?" Ginger said and came to sit on the floor by his side to look at the green spiky tube.

"Yeah, check this out," Tim said, pointing at the description. "And it's not for back rubs. It's for foot massage."

Then Ginger understood Tim was about to get ideas.

Then Tim saw his face. 

Then Tim got ideas.

"Hm," he said, looking at the red spots forming on Ginger's cheeks. "Don't your feet bother you sometimes?"

They don't. 

It's Tim who bothers Ginger, and it was Tim who did that time, he ended up naked on the couch, panting and jerking off, black eyes unseeing, Tim on his knees above him, cock between his soles drowned in lube, _jerk off and look at how I fuck your accomodating feet_ , Tim said, gripping his ankles tight and pressing on them, working his hips steadily and staring at Ginger's pathetic mouth falling open, and Ginger moaned, moving his fist drowned in lube on his cock fast, compelled to do that just like Tim is to obsess about his vertebrae and overwhelmed, because of the view and the sensations and also because Tim was talking and laughing at him, _sweet little things_ , Tim said, running his fingers over Ginger's curling toes, sliding his cock between the arches, _so innocent and pretty_ , he said, _so fuckable_ , he said, and even though that didn't finish Ginger or Tim himself off, it caused disruptions in their mental states, Tim saw red as Ginger blushed furiously, Tim let the blood out of his mouth, the blood Ginger let him drink, _sweet little squid_ , Tim said, Ginger's eyes travelling from his face to his cock between his feet to his own cock and back, in a loop, Ginger himself trapped and shuddering, _you're so gonna come for me right now_ , Tim said, smiling his tender shark smile at him, knowing what is imminent. Then what was bound to happen happened and Ginger came, squirming on the couch, hips jerking up, feet tense around Tim's cock, hands shaking, face feverish and frightened, and then Tim came too, growling and swearing, because he saw everything he'd said he would see and that absolutely ended him.

The green spiky tube for children's soles rested on the floor next to the couch while Tim held Ginger's sullied feet in his lap, caressing the skin and veins and bones and joints.

"Is it old age or something?" Tim asked, genuinely intrigued. "Why haven't I thought of this sooner?"

cranberries or figs?

cauliflower

Ginger laughed and shrugged, so soft and sweet and gooey next to him. Tim's demise wasn't a short one.

"Don't know..." Ginger said. "It's... It's not. Not something you were into. I think. Is it?"

"Nah," Tim huffed out. "Not that I would've minded, but... Had enough of other kinds of fetishists around, I guess. So this perversion is on you, squid."

"Fuck you," Ginger tried to push him with his defiled feet.

"Shhh," Tim said. "Don't be rude. I'm still chewing here."

He kept caressing the skin and veins and bones and joints, because of course Ginger'd let him.

"Did you like it?" he asked a minute later. 

Ginger blushed and nodded.

"And you?"

Tim simply smiled.

"Sure. It was lovely. And like... Properly debauched. Not bad for two tenderfeet like us."

Ginger tried to push him again, laughing.

"Shhh," Tim said. "Calm down. Let me soothe the main victims."

His fingers were fucking pious - that's how lovely it all was.

He only stopped the service to light up a cigarette.

"Oh," he said, looking at Ginger exhaling smoke. "Oh. Shit."

"What?" Ginger asked, putting the cigarette between his teeth, Tim bending to help him, unwilling to part with his feet from now on. 

Tim took a drag.

"I've lied," he said. "I've done this before."

"Oh," Ginger said, as Tim wrote four numbers from the distant past across Ginger's sole. "When?"

"Back when disco perms and purple leggings were rock'n'roll," Tim chuckled. "And she used to wear a headband."

He bent again, returning the cigarette to Ginger. 

"There was no part of that lady's body that... _had a twin sister_ my cock wasn't shoved into," he said, turning his reminiscing face to the ceiling. "I mean, okay, excluding eyes and ears, of course. But like armpits? Definitely." He shaked his head. "I've got no idea what was her deal. We fucked too. Not that it wasn't a bargain, though. She was... You know, a bit older." He smirked. "And I was fully enrolled. Enthusiastic. Ready for fucking action."

Ginger tried to push him one more time, almost hiccupping.

"God, Tim. You're---"

"No, I'm not," Tim said, catching his feet. "I know you only got near pussy at the end of the next decade, so? There's no need to be jealous."

"Fuck off," Ginger said, coughing and wiping his wet eyes. "Jesus. You're..."

Tim bent and kissed the skin, the veins, the bones, the joints.

"Yeah," he said. "Yes. And you're lovely."

Ginger gulped.

"Sweet. And soft. And fuckable."

Ginger blushed again and closed his eyes. 

"Lovely. And I'm mad about you. So lie very still. Let's have dessert."

  
Tim isn't sure when or if he ever finished kissing and caressing Ginger's defiled feet that time, but he must have at some point, seeing that he's where he is now.

  
And now he's sitting naked on the bed, and the belt chilling out next to him is John's, the crocodile clamps are brand new and his, the massage roller does belong to Ginger, though it is nowhere in sight at the moment, as well as the dildos that are also Tim's.

Ginger is Tim's too.

"Hello," Tim says, Ginger entering the bedroom. 

"Check out my wordly possessions," Tim says, Ginger stumbling on his route.

"I want you to torture the shit out of me," Tim says, Ginger dumbfounded and gawking at him.

Clarifications are indeed needed.

"Okay, maybe like not that much agony," Tim continues. "Not right away, at least. But just a casual amount of maltreatment. Just a tiny little bit. Just make me brush my teeth and go to bed, that sort of thing. Deal?"

The stunned statue of a marine animal laughs at that and manages to put down stuff he's holding in his hands, proceeding to undress until it is only the uniform - a wifebeater and no pants - that's covering his body, while Tim tells him legends about finding treasures at the store and so on.

"...so I figured it would be fair for both of us to have his own set," Tim finishes, spinning the cord with clamps in the air. "Anyway. Will you torment me?"

"Do you..." Ginger starts.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay? I mean, John---"

John's awesome, but it's about another type of magic.

"I'm fine," Tim says. Tim smiles, skin on his face a bit dry. 

Are you?

"I'm fine. It's not that. My fucked up head's at peace and I'm not planning to bite off yours," Tim says. Ginger smiles, his face that of an idiot in love. "Just want to have some fun. I mean, you like me, don't you?"

The big questions.

What are y---

"Of course," Ginger laughs and fidgets. Tim pats the mattress next to him, Ginger sitting down. "I love you."

"So..."

Shut up.

"That's why... Hurting you. That's why. It's hard."

Tim nods.

"Uh-huh. I know. But... Haven't you ever thought that I might be secretly into that?" Ginger laughs again, relaxing gradually. "I like it. The painful shit. That's how being a masochistic asshole works." 

Ginger swallows, touching his hand with his stupid scared fingers.

"I... Okay," he says. "I... I get it. Just, you know..."

Tim nods.

"Uh-huh. Sure. But..." he catches Ginger's tentacle, holds it for a second, puts it on his own neck, Ginger's stupid scared fingers on his pulse. "I'm really fond of you too." Touch and listen. "I wanna feed you." Touch and see. "I want you to have a taste of me." Fuck beans. "I'm delicious." He's the dinner. "How about today you eat me?"

  
"No, wait," Tim says, stopping Ginger. "Keep the cord in. You might wanna pull at it."

Careful phrasing is the key ingredient.

Careful phrasing means he doesn't have to spend years repeating _yes_ , insisting that everything is possible, please fucking chew already. Well, that and squids being quite intelligent. And incapable of saying _no_. And his.

Ginger nods, fiddling with the shiny crocodiles, scanning Tim's beaming snout, in search for fundamental truths as well.

"Where... Where---"

Tim's smile grows wider.

_Anywhere._

"Anywhere? Donno. Not something I've experienced much. Let's try and see, huh? I'll report the findings."

Ginger looks at the clamps, equations in his eyes, and lifts his head, lifts his hand. Ginger touches Tim's lips.

Then...

"Oh."

He should fucking elaborate, shouldn't he?

He catches Ginger's withdrawing tentacle and holds it in place, rubbing at his pinched lip, the clamp brushing against the back of Ginger's hand, Tim pulling and twisting it a little.

"Uhmm," he elaborates.

Ginger shivers.

"Does it..."

"Yeah. Hurts," Tim says and elaborates some more. "Nice. One more?"

Ginger performs a basic operation of arithmetic.

"Uhmm," Tim goes into further details. "Fuck. Tug at them."

That's not maths, but that's what Tim says, so it is what Ginger does. Gently. And shakes. Gently too.

Tim smiles, the pair of assailants on his lips clinking.

Tim holds Ginger's wrist tight.

"I uh..."

"Shitting yourself, I am aware," Tim says, pushing Ginger's fingers in his mouth, the softness of his touch contrasted with the soreness sending charges through his body. "I'm loving it. Uhmm, fuck. Come here."

Kissing through the barricade of razor-edged obstructions might not be the most convenient exercise, but it's not like it's something new.

Tim's mouth's always been a picket fence.

Ginger moans into it as they kiss, his tongue between the crocodiles' metal teeth, and when they part... 

They don't really part.

Their hands are in each other's hair, and Ginger's looking at his lips, looking entranced, frightened of himself and beautiful. 

Ginger's plasma touches his trap.

"Yeah?" 

He is delicious. And a great cook.

Ginger keeps his fingers on his delicately hurt lips, pulling slightly, the metal clinking, and Tim breathes his nuclear reactions out, Tim licks Ginger's fingertips.

A sparkle flickers in Ginger's black eyes.

"What?" Tim whispers, following the trajectory. _Oh_. Tim sneers. "Yeah. Come on."

Then...

"Oh!"

He kind of wants to know how this improvised idiocy looks, but phonems might find it hard to escape his oral cavity right now and also fuck mirrors, fuck everything, he looks at Ginger.

His saliva covers Ginger's fingertips.

"I..."

"Fjavking awestigme," Tim slurs out, flapping his bitten tongue, and then manages an equally crippled laugh. "Shuit, I slound fjavkling Swendskish."

Ginger's laughter clinks, reflected off the metal surface of the clamps, and he frees Tim's tongue, takes it in his mouth, sucking it.

Tim speaks at length.

"That..." Ginger starts, pulling away, his fingers interfering with the coherency of Tim's speech.

"Yeah," Tim says. "Hurts."

"But you... Like---"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Exactly like that." He kisses Ginger's fingertips with his armored lips. "Though if we want communication..."

"I uh... Yes."

"Okay," Tim says. "Some other time then."

Ginger touches his chatty, jingling mouth.

"Do you... You want to keep these, right?"

Tim smiles, licking at the clamps.

"Actually..." he says, breathing out nuclear emissions, the particles of poison landing on Ginger's devoted face. "I wouldn't mind upping the stakes."

Ginger eyes move up and down, studying the scripture.

"Like..."

"Slap me. Then put them on."

Then...

"Oh."

Then a pause. Then laughter.

"No, not like that," Tim says, catching Ginger's reluctant tentacle before it lands like a light breeze on his face again. "Don't give me this bland bullshit. Don't panic. Don't pity me." Tim puts his lips on Ginger's fingers. Tim puts Ginger's fingers on his own lips. "Slap me like you kiss me."

Then...

"Oh." and "Oh." and "Fuck." and "More." and "Ginger, fuck, more."

Then Ginger puts two brand new shiny crocodile clamps back on his beaten lips.

"Uhmm," Tim kisses Ginger through the fence. "Fuck, squid."

There isn't much taste yet, but Tim smells radioactive blood as he licks into Ginger's mouth.

Abhorrently tender plasma caresses his shoulders.

"Where... Where else?"

Tim smirks.

"Nipples?"

The plasma blushes on his behalf. 

Then...

"Oh wow." 

Ginger swallows. 

"Shit."

Ginger gulps.

"I uh... Is that too much?"

Tim laughs, scooping up the plasma and wiping it on his own chest.

"No," he says, showing Ginger's confusing tentacles the way to move, putting his stupid scared fingers on the clamps. "God, no. Pull."

When Ginger's told what he's to do, he does it.

When Ginger does it, Tim exhales flames.

"Fuck, squid."

His head lolls back, throat twitching, while Ginger touches him.

Samples him.

"Fuck," Tim says, feeling Ginger's tongue touching his pulse.

Ginger's looking at him.

"Is it..." he starts, looking at Tim's throat. "Are they... Like, are they---"

"No," Tim says, breathing out the moan Ginger's been staring at. "Yours are mesmeric passes. These shiny creatures are fucking pike acupuncture. Put two more on."

Then...

"Oh."

Then...

"I uh..."

Tim moans again.

"Ginj."

That turns out to be the right spell.

"Fuck," Tim says, turning his heavy spinning head and looking at his own bristly chest with blurry eyes. " _Fuck._ "

Ginger shivers. Ginger licks his lips. Ginger licks his lips instead of lapping Tim.

"I uh... Tim, if---"

"Shush," Tim says, grabbing at his tentacles again, putting his fingers on the clamps baring their teeth on his skin. "It's not too much. It's fucking great. Come on. Hurt me."

_Eat._

Ginger shivers, staring at his own hands enjoying their own lives full of liberties, Tim seeing nuclear explosions reflected in his absolutely black, transfixed eyes.

Ginger eats him.

Tim moans, gritting his teeth, his spiky chest heaving, and Ginger shivers, hit by the shockwave, he bends, and then his tongue is on Tim.

Ginger's licking between the metal clamps gnawing on his nipples.

"Oh fuck," Tim says, seeing Ginger's haunted face when he lifts his head. "Squid. Fuck. Yes. Yes."

Ginger smiles, biting his glowing lower lip. He fumbles with the cord, his hands on Tim's chest again.

"Wait, wait," Tim says, brushing against his fingers. "Fuck it. It's too short. We won't have enough for the main part."

He glances down, and Ginger shivers, arriving at the destination too.

"You want... Uh. You want me to---"

"I'm more like fucking dying for you to do that," Tim chuckles, nodding at his own leaking cock. "And my little friend standing at attention too." Ginger studies Tim's army buddy, swallowing hard. "It's always dreamt of being a Christmas tree."

"Where... Where should I..."

Tim says nothing, looking in his black eyes and smiling.

Ginger's plasma fluctuates, his black eyes travelling up and down Tim's naked body in front of him.

Then his plasma touches him.

Caressing.

"Yeah," Tim says, feeling poisonous vibrations ripping through him. "Just like that."

Then...

Then he bombards the air with fucks eight times in a row.

Ginger's irradiated fingers touch the clamp digging into his flesh right under the head, adjusting it, soothing his bitten skin, and Tim moans in earnest.

Sweet misery.

Ginger keeps touching him.

Sweet squid.

"Uhm..." he starts, glancing at Tim's face. "I... How does it f---"

"Yeah," Tim says, jerking his hips up a bit, pushing into his palm, the Christmas tree clinking merrily. "How does it taste?"

Ginger blushes. Turns away. Breathes audibly. Opens his tender mouth smeared in Tim's plutonium as if he is a creature of the ocean drowning in it.

Which he is.

"I uh..." Ginger looks at him again. "I love you."

Tim laughs.

"Yeah," he says. "The same."

Then...

Then Ginger licks the aching skin between the crocodiles feasting on his cock and balls.

Then Tim's head spins, his chest exploding.

Then Ginger eats him.

  
Fucking phagocytosis.

  
"Fuck me," Tim says, grabbing at John's belt and shoving it in Ginger's shaking hands.

The exchange of nutrients left them both disorientated.

But then Tim throws his legs open, presenting Ginger with his hole that's always dreamt of being ruined, and Ginger's fingers on his thigh tremble and he inquires what it is that Tim wants, he says _do you..._ and Tim says _yes_ , he means _slap me and then fuck me_ , he means _fuck me and then slap me_ , he means _do anything you fucking want with me_ , and sure, his tongue is free of clamps, he is incoherent on his own, he is incoherent, but he is understood, timid gooey squids are smart and lovely and adore him, then Ginger's fingers stretch him, Ginger's fingers squeeze the belt, they're lubed and sweaty, then Ginger slaps him, the belt burning his skin like the nuclear disaster in his heart burns him, like it burns Ginger, the blows hurt him and Ginger's tentacles dive in him, soothing him, and Tim moans, seeing shooting fucking stars, arching there on the bed, the tiny metal predators pulling at his casing every time he moves and writhes, not just moves, he shatters under Ginger's touch, chanting his fucking name, and Ginger slaps and fucks him, Ginger hurts and soothes him, Ginger loves him and Ginger eats him.

"Fuck, squid," Tim says, disintegrating. "Fuck me. Fucking ruin me."

And he means... 

He doesn't know what he means. He arches on the bed between the blows and the kisses, the bites and sweeps of tongue, and he can't really lift his head, his boiling skull is kind of dangling, his neck threatening to snap, and his spinning mind is full of debris, radioactive blood and phallic objects or just any objects, he isn't picky at the moment, he thinks of dildos which he doesn't see and of Ginger's cock he has a very vivid mental image of always at hand and of Ginger's tentacles, yeah, of both his tentacles, of both his fists inside of him, of his fucking _feet_ inside of him, and he moves, rolling across the bottom of the ocean, dragged by the current, and that's when the weird bright green spiky tube poking its bizarre nose from behind Ginger's ludicrous alarm clock winks at him.

Tim spirals up, into the sun.

"Ginj," he says, staring at the thing. "Fuck, Ginj. Shove this green shit in me."

The very vivid image of Ginger - pale face, red spots, black holes instead of eyes - spins violently when he glances at him, and that is not just because his fucked up head went haywire.

It is because Ginger's cruising at the speed of light into the nearest star with him.

It is because he's been absorbing the ocean of Tim's glowing blood. Because he's been inhaling the helpless gas of Tim's imploding body. Because he's been sucking Tim's insane heart out of him.

"Tim," Ginger says, gulping, and shudders like in an earthquake. "It's... It's gonna h---"

"Yeah."

  
Then...

  
Then Ginger drops the weird spiky tube a few times, trying to coat it in lube and align it with Tim's whining hole.

Then Tim says wait, _slap me first._

Then Ginger almost bursts into tears hearing that. Then Ginger sobs while Tim screeches at the inept blows. Then Ginger lets Tim's poison of a blood run freely out of his mouth.

"Hurt me," Tim says then. "Hurt me like you fucking love me."

Then Ginger moans while Tim cries out his name.

Then Ginger eats him.

  
Then, with a bit of fumbling and a bit of luck and a lot of hurry, the weird spiky tube ends up inside Tim.

  
It's not much later that he comes clenching around it, Ginger's tentacles pushing it in and out, the green shit for children's feet grazing him, Ginger pulling at the cord, his shaking transferred to it, the shiny metal crocodiles devouring Tim's aching shell while Ginger swallows the nuclear disaster that powers him and ruins him.

  
Then...

  
Then Tim is kind of not really conscious, he's floating in the ocean of Ginger's plasma engulfing him, he's dissolving, he is consumed, then he still stares up, suffocating, torn apart, his heart in pieces, his remains in pain, then he sees Ginger, he says his name, he's lost, he calls for help, he fucking needs him, then he is blinded by the sight, because then, then Ginger looks at him, at his remains in pain and at his heart in pieces, then Ginger looks at him and swallows him entirely.

And comes while he's at it. Jerking off and looking at him while Tim let's him have it. All of it.

Of him.

  
Then, without going into much detail about clamps being removed, gallons of water being drunk, fourteen cigarettes being consecutively smoked and haunted faces being sucked and naked trembling bodies being wrapped in blankets and around each other, then they sleep.

  
They sleep, and the weird bright green spiky fucking tube sleeps right next to them.


	21. Naive shark

  
There is that day when Tim crawls out of bed to take a leak, quietly and slowly, careful like creeping radiation, when he sways on his feet, towering over the toilet, rubbing at his forehead, waiting for the goddamn piss to leave his bladder, when he looks for the cigarettes that are nowhere to be found, when he shoves a salad leaf in his mouth after opening the fridge to check if maybe his tobacco's there, the horses neighing merrily inside his stinky oral cavity, Tim chewing, looking out the window, at the woman pulling plastic chairs out of her trunk when it is like eight in the fucking morning, there is that day when Tim comes back to the bedroom and there're long streaks of light slipping in between the curtains and fitting on every surface, object or idiot they touch, and also there're two idiots who are not asleep, even though he's been gone for like twenty seconds, who're close and intertwined and blowing each other, naked, wrinkled, emanating warmth, the blankets on the floor, the peanut bags and John's guitar and that is Ginger's slipper and oh, the cigarettes have been chilling out on the nightstand all along, they've witnessed those precious twenty seconds that Tim's missed, Tim misses just a little, that day, that day he stands there in the bedroom, smiling like a leaking warhead, he looks at John and he looks at Ginger, at them sixty nining behind his back and right in front of him, and the view is frankly... absent, it is a bit like watching a shitty blurry tilted homemade video that's shot from the most awkward angle, he looks at them and sees Ginger's stupid head with dirty hair obscuring John's cock he fondles with his lips, he sees John's feet and Ginger's are hiding under the pillow and he doesn't see John's filthy mouth that makes that pillow jump and twitch, he doesn't see Ginger's awesome cock, nothing he sees is at all explicit, there're just two naked bodies, intertwined and colored with sunlight, they are all there is and he stands there in the bedroom, that day, stands and watches them and thinks that if he dies right now then... he won't, he won't die, he can't die when he is watching them, he's either inextinguishable or it is already heaven, there is that day when Tim stands in the middle of the bedroom at eight in the fucking morning and watches John and Ginger blowing each other, moaning, so soft and warm, there is that day when Tim feels like he is made of pure bliss, he thinks that it is going to stay like that forever, thinks it can never change, not ever, why would it, there is that day when all Tim feels is happiness, he feels that happiness is all he'll ever feel, he really, really thinks that, that day, there is that day when he looks at two idiots he loves and loves them and that is all he does.

There is that day.

  
But then there're other days.

  
There're so, so many other days.

  
There're those two days he spends in his dark room he loathes, loathing himself, and sure, it is just two days, that's not the longest sentence he has ever served, but they break him, they punch him in the guts, they stir inside him, because just before they happened, just before those two fucking days arrived he lied there in bed with him and said _just think of me like that, okay_ and yes, he didn't call him a pathetic pile of crap during those two days that came right after, but he thought that.

He thought that and he meant that.

  
There is that night, that short summer night, just a few hours, that night he spends lying on the ground, on the concrete of the haunted street not far from John's house, he drives to John's place, he kno... he doesn't knock, he stands there at the doorstep, he has been throwing fits, things on the floor, words in his face, and sure, he spared them, he was succinct, but he didn't spare him, broke him, punched him in the guts, stirred his heartless hand inside of him, he did it, did it because of, fuck, because of air and because of sounds and because of cigarettes, because of the percent of nitrogen by volume he managed to turn into a motive for senseless murder, because there were almost no sounds, but only almost, because he could still hear him being there on the planet with him, because he, fuck, he simply asked him if he could have a smoke and... and he doesn't knock, he stands at the doorstep, rehearsing, preparing for the speech and failing, _I had an argument with him_ , he has to say, _I started it, about air fucking composition, I shouted at him, he tried to calm me down, I threw whatever I could find at him, he ran away, you know, John, he can't run away, I sat on the couch and he was in the bathroom, I could feel it, sense him, I had black tar pulsing under my eyelids and no, I don't know, John, I really don't know for how long it lasted, I only know that he simply asked me if he could have a smoke, because even the packages he'd gone and bought when I had told him to stop annoying me the day before that, even those packages are mine, I know that I pulled the package out and it was in my hand and I heard his steps, the shuffling of the paper, I heard his breath, I heard... I only know that I'd kicked him before he could even speak, I kicked him with my boot, blindly, it probably was his shin, he probably wanted to say sorry, to tell me he is sorry for everything that I have done, me, John, I kicked him and I heard how he tumbled, fell on the floor, I didn't even look, I got up and I... fuck, John, I stepped over him, I did, I... fuck, John, I almost drowned him, you know, when we were in France, when we lost your bright pink mattress you'd fucked my brains about, I almost drowned him back then, I've never told you, I pulled him under water and I kept him there and I looked at him, at how he was ready to die there for me, just because I had such a whim, I held him there until it was almost too late, I almost killed him, but that was better, better than what I'm doing now, because, you know, John, because back then I was there with him, under water, I would've died myself, I wanted both of us dead, him because I knew I'd broken him, I'd eaten him, I knew that he was done, and me, myself, because I did it to him, because I would do it once again, because I'd just start all over, because I loved him and, you know, John, I really loved him, I did back then, I loved him so much, but now, right this second, now and when I kicked him, when I told him to fuck off, when I stepped over him I... fuck, John, I don't know what I'm doing, don't know what I'm going to do to him, don't know what I... fuck, John, I didn't... I didn't love him, John_ , he has to say, he has to say _please, fucking help me_ , he needs to, but he doesn't, he doesn't knock, he can't, he can't, because every time he tries to finish even one single sentence of his confession he hears _isn't so much white sugar bad for you_ said in a confused and somewhat indignant tone, he sees John's pursed lips and his wrinkled nose, and sure, all he did back then is pulled it, while John was poking it into his meringues and getting in the way, all he did back then is said _well, I'm not the one who's eating it_ , said _it is your poison_ , said _what do you think the sweets are made of_ , said that and laughed as John was pushing him and shoved a strawberry in his dumb mouth to shut him up and let him finish making his ugly cake, sure, that's all he did back then and all he felt was the urgent need to smoke and delight, but now, as he stands there at the doorstep, he keeps hearing it, that _isn't so much white sugar bad for you_ and the twang, it's buzzing in his skull, it's piercing icy needles through it, it's _what do you fucking think the fucking sweets are fucking made of_ , it's... it's a sound, the sound of the steps behind the door he hears, he jumps, recoils, he's pushed away, it's just if the door opens now he'll see what it is John's wearing and that's... that's... that is his own bile he turns into, stinky, grimy liquid he becomes as he retreats, fast, hurried, in no direction, just away, just fucking go, just leave, just... that is the haunted street he haunts regularly he ends up on, he falls, bones dissolved, no longer supporting him, he falls and lies there on the ground and shakes in the darkness of the quiet summer night when only crazy shredding virtuosos and crazy dog ladies are awake, he lies there on the ground until a crazy dog lady tells him he can't be there, until he tells her _there's nowhere I can be._

There is that night he spends being his own bile staining the residential ground, that night when he doesn't love them, and then there is that morning, when he goes back home, after several more hours of senseless driving, that morning when he enters the room he is sitting in, at his computer, browsing something in an ugly sweater and no pants, when he jumps and looks at him and looks like a... like a dry leaf that is about to be blown away, that's ready to disappear at the first request, that morning when he stops him, manages to stop him, to take a step, one, two steps forward, when he stops himself, because... because he doesn't know what he'll do, he stops and quirks his lips, moving his shoulders, trying to say what he should be saying every waking second of his fucking life, he takes out the smokes, pulls them out of his pocket and throws them on the table and looks at him and waits and fuck, does he understand his language, he twitches, licks his lips, goes tense, relaxes, swallows hard, he nods as Tim says _sorry, I'm gonna..._ and points with his heavy head in the direction of the _nowhere where he can't be_ , he looks at him, as Tim leaves, he looks, Tim can feel that.

Tim can't feel much more than that for the next four days he does not remember.

  
There are those four days he remembers and those six days and those three and those other four and those five and that one and so many more, he does remember all of them, every waking second and all his nightmares, all his thoughts, his thoughts he's learned by whatever that is that he has for heart when he's inside there, that is inside him, that cold, slick, coiling thing that whispers in his ear, that calls him by his name, that tells him it wasn't always there, he wasn't like this, he's just been invaded, _occupied_ , it's not his fault, it's that slime that got inside of him, that filthy, subhuman slime that shakes pathetically in his chest, it's all that d i s g u s t i n g creature, it isn't him, it is inside of him, but it is not him, that cold, slick, coiling thing that whispers in his ear, that _debates_ him, that says _yeah, but so what, or do you forget what he talks to you about, about relatives and shoelaces they all should go and hang themselves with, do you forget that he deserves it_ , says that when he says _I raped him, I tortured him, I've broken him, I almost fucking drowned him_ , that thing that says _yeah, but so what, he's dumb and definitely, definitely not an angel, he's a pup that bites what he can't swallow and thinks he's the best hunter of the forest, he's clueless, he's just a stupid little thing, or do you forget that he is the one who gets off on hearing how much he likes being used, do you forget that it is your right to use him, it is your right to do a n y t h i n g y o u w a n t_ , says that when he says _I've poisoned him, I held his mouth open and poured the tar I am down his throat, I fed him blood, I've made him love the pain, I've made him into the image of myself, I've turned him into a fucking monster just like I am_ , that thing that says _yeah, so what, you're a predator and they are your food, that's just how it is, that's what you do, this is your universe_ , that chatty fucking thing that speaks in his own voice and asks him questions, asks him isn't he Tim, calls him by his name, that thing that asks him what h---

That thing he's alone with during those days.

  
There're those days when he's not alone, when there're so many other people around him, o t h e r t h a n t h e m, them he's never heard of, them he's left miles and miles from where he is during those days, those days and those other people he does not remember, those things he puts in his mouth to achieve oblivion, that oblivion that doesn't fucking help.

  
There're those days when he's not alone, when the disgusting creature he despises sleeps next to the door of his dark prison, when it tries to crawl in, inside of him, like fucking vomit that won't go away, there're those days when he waits next to the door of his dark prison, waits inside of it, waits till the pile of shit smearing the floor and clinging to his boot falls asleep so that he can have some freedom, s o m e f r e e d o m, there is that day when he waits for fourteen billion years, talking to the black hole in his mind, to the black hole that says that the thing that always follows him, that shadow, that it must be annihilated, because such filth, pathetic, worthless filth, it shouldn't be allowed to exist, that black hole he's in agreement with, there is that day when he waits until the filth passes out and tries opening the door and sees it shift, jump, stir to life again and screams, s c r e a m s, screams until he can no longer, screams and throws everything he can find at the walls and smashes it and when there isn't anything to throw anymore he throws himself, he punches the barriers he's put around his own sweaty body, he tries to break it, he breaks his skin, he slams his fists into the wall, his knees, feet, shoulders, his back, his exploding head, he falls and cries when he can scream no longer, when the insides of the black hole in his mind are all scrambled along with his brain, he screams and falls and cries and he no longer hears his own voice he's in agreement with, but that is no help, because as he screams and falls and cries he hears the f i l t h crying with him, hears its muffled words, hears _Tim, please_ , hears _please, stop_ , hears it daring to pity him.

_Him._

  
There're those days when he knocks, when the door gets open, when he gives no speech, when he quirks his lips and moves his shoulders, when John's pretty face turns into shards, when he knows he understands, he knows what h---

He doesn't know what he thinks about that face when he does not knock.

There're those days when John lets him in, lets him in _again_ , when John greets him with his name, when he confines himself in there, when he sometimes goes back home after fourteen billion years of sleep, when he says _thank you_ as John lets him out, as John forgives him.

Those useless days. 

Those days he still remembers, every detail, every twitching facial muscle, every tune, every molecule of air John doesn't want to share with him, every time he forgives him and doesn't understand what for, still doesn't fully understand what h---

That day he can't forget when John does not understand at all, as if he is a gold fish, as if he never learns, as if Tim's not Tim, that day when he knocks and John opens the door and smiles and starts flirting with him in a flash, when Tim understands he is at the right address for what he had in mind and fuck, the things he had in there, when Tim smirks obnoxiously and looks him up and down, him and the pattern on the leopard rag he's wearing, with an expression that is somewhat akin to the one John puts on when Tim reminds him what h--- 

With an expression John's never seen directed at himself.

Well, not one of Tim's.

Tim, who smirks, sizing him up and thinking that the _item_ is a bit seedy, it's second hand, but okay, he'll take it, after all, he isn't p i c k y, he looks at him and smirks and thinks that the leopard rag will do and John shivers, John frowns, John squints at him and starts saying _what_ and Tim laughs like mad, _at_ him, Tim laughed with him that very morning, just several hours ago when John was leaving, wanted to play, to jerk guitars instead of Tim's aching cock, said _bring me something and then we'll talk_ and Tim said _is the exchange rate like a piece of cake for a piece of ass_ and John pushed him, giggling, telling him he's horrible, Tim hugging him, telling him he's indeed horrible, but will be paying him a visit later today and he does, he stands there smirking at him as John tries to figure out what it is that has arrived at his doorstep, what h---

  
He does, and what he does before that is that he...

  
Well.

  
What John doesn't know is that how fast the process takes off sometimes.

How tiny are the things that trigger it.

That they are cracks, thin lines, they are drops and dots, nicks he sees out of the corner of his eye.

John doesn't have a clue.

John shiver, frowns, squints at him, John realizes something's wrong and Tim starts laughing, John starts saying _what_ , but says _fuck you_ , John pushes him and says _fuck you_ and shuts the door right in his obnoxious face and maybe, maybe that is what's to be done to him, maybe that is what he should do instead of asking himself questions about what h---

And what he does after that day that he cannot forget is e a r n s forgiveness, he brings John everything, he bribes his way back in, he is s o r r y, sorry for the things he didn't say, the things John does not understand, has no clue about, what comes after that day that he cannot forget are other days, days he spends kissing cracks and thin lines, scratches, those little nicks he's left in them, every and each one of them, what comes next is not what came to John's that day, it's not what John leaves alone, what tells him to do so, tells him _fuck off_ , what John by then avoids looking at, even though it's too late, what John starts to u n d e r s t a n d, what comes next is a period of naive bliss, just like the one they had been cruising through before Tim laughed and hugged John and looked at Ginger as they kissed and closed the door and said _coffee?_ and heard the sound that made him into bile, the sound of Ginger sipping from the cup, the sound of the phonemes he produced when Tim glanced at him with a barely noticeable, sharp, electric, irritated motion, the sound of him saying s o r r y and his soft smile, the dent of his stupid mouth on his dumb face.

So what comes before and after that flashing point that he cannot forget is bliss, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because John doesn't have a clue, because John forgives him, it doesn't matter because he still remembers it, every little detail, not only what he doesn't want to feel shame for, in agreement with his black hole, but also what preceded it, that door he knocked on, that door that opened, the pattern on John's shirt, John's painted nails, John's lacy necklace, John's make up and John's dyed hair, John's pretty face which he doesn't think is pretty when he remembers it, his filthy flirty virtuoso that he loves but then, when he remembers him, he doesn't, that fucking feeling, that l a c k of it, he's known it and it won't ever leave him, it doesn't matter because John leaves him, leaves him alone, l i s t e n s to him and sees him, sees what he fucking is and tries to help him, to help him stop being that, to beat that cold, slick, coiling thing out of him, that thing that pities him and loathes him and blames him and exonerates him and sleeps with him and wakes up with him and talks with him and _is_ him, h i m, it doesn't matter because it doesn't help, because it tells him to fuck off, to fucking go, it's left to rot alone.

It doesn't matter because that doesn't help.

  
Nothing.

  
Nothing helps.

  
There is that day when he bumps into the mirror accidentally, when he drags it closer to the bed, a tender shark smile playing on his lips, and chills out, waiting for the prey, that day when the prey arrives and after some initial - and residual - struggle sits between his legs, back pressed to his rumbling chest, head resting on his shoulder, that day when Tim sits with Ginger in front of the mirror and tells him about every particle of him he clearly sees and loves as Ginger touches them, tells each and one of them they're beautiful and kisses them and kisses him, Tim kisses Ginger who does not believe him, who doesn't like himself, who can't, but who now can, can feel what Tim feels through Tim, can want things with him, together, can _be_ with him or without him, that day when they map Ginger's sweaty steaming skin with both their eyes and their fingers and Tim personally with his tongue and lips, when after fourteen billion years of timid tender exploration of the self Ginger is almost disintegrating, almost, he needs a final push, some help, that day when Tim sinks on his knees between his knees and puts his lips on him, his tongue on him and his eyes are also on him, he watches Ginger as Ginger watches Ginger in the mirror, Tim doesn't let him watch Tim, says _look at yourself_ , so Ginger does, looks at himself and at Tim's back in the mirror, Tim's kneeling frame, because that's alright, that day when Ginger watches himself, coming in Tim's mouth, and Tim watches Ginger, that day that is singular and special, but repeated, often, that day is one of those days for which Tim lives.

There is that day when he bumps into the mirror a bit later or, rather, earlier, when he gets up at dawn to empty his bursting bladder, he bumps into the reflective thing and curses, under his breath, he doesn't want the supple plasma from the center of the sun that has been hugging him to wake up, he wants it peaceful, that day, there is that day when he moves the mirror to avoid bumping into it on his way back and as he does, as its position changes and his own frame comes into contact with its surface, he catches a glimpse of...

Of _what he is._

He's still confused that day, he stops in his tracks and shakes his head, wipes his sleepy face, his tired eyes, looks in the mirror once again and sees... Well, nothing out of the ordinary, just good old pushy asshole they all know and love, his own sleepy face and his own tired eyes, nothing there's foreign or unfamiliar, and he shrugs the strange feeling off as he goes to the bathroom to take his break of day leak.

He really shrugs it off that day.

Like it - _it_ \- isn't him.

But then there're other days. So many other fucking days.

Days when he catches a glimpse of something odd in the reflective surface and doesn't catch himself as he falls deeper, when John catches him staring in there, into the void, and yanks him out with his whiny voice and laughs at him, old age, Alzheimer's, so on, days when Tim still laughs with him, when he doesn't realize what kind of trance has overtaken him, when he comments on his vanity he must've picked from John or when he says it was just careful assessment of his chances of reaching a certain four digit number and Ginger laughs as well, telling him the number's already grown exponentially, while John blinks dumbly at them, at a loss and pretty, there are those days when Tim turns away from the mirror and forgets about what he's seen there immediately as he catches the first glimpse of them, two shining idiots, being with him.

  
Those days go by.

  
Those days pass.

  
There're those days when Tim knows, knows what it is he's doing and can make an educated guess about what it is he's staring at, when their voices still yank him out of his observation coma, when what he feels is fear, two types of fucking fear, days when he is afraid of what he's looking at and then, even more so, of the slim chance he will be caught in the act by _them_ , of the chance they will realize what he has learned as well, of the chance they'll see him for what he is and...

  
There're days when Tim thinks they should.

They should fucking leave him.

  
There're days when Tim hides the mirrors or from mirrors, when he really hopes nobody can see what he's doing, when fear makes him dumb, and John... well, John is only bright in the sense that he is shining, John manages to forget almost everything he sees, everything becomes alright and fine just a few days later, but Ginger notices and Tim notices him do that, Tim notices him trying to disguise it too, trying to look like he hasn't seen a single thing, like he has no idea what is going on, like he wasn't the person Tim barked at when a tiny corner of the mirror reappeared as one of the pair of pants Tim diligently placed there was removed, like Tim wasn't the one who showed him his ugly teeth, showed him that thing he's been looking at, that very thing.

There're days when fear mixes with anger.

  
Of course, it does.

  
Because how dares he.

  
How dares he pity _him._

  
There're days when he - _he_ \- starts to crawl out of the mirrors, reflections three-dimensional, when a single glimpse is all it takes, when just with a blink Tim's gone, confined in the flat world of the reflective surface and that thing, that cold, slick, coiling thing walks around, pretending it is him, wearing his and Ginger's clothes, smoking his cigarettes, ruling over his kitchen, touching his food.

There're days when Tim smashes the fucking mirrors before the thing gets out, while he still can, before it is too late.

  
Of course, it always already is.

  
There're those days when Tim looks at two shining stars, eyes blurry, a painful smile carved into his face, when all he should feel is bliss, but all he sees are dents, his own imprints, all he sees is open wounds he turned two creatures that love him into, just their bleeding bodies, their shattered bones, them who he has destroyed, there're days when he doesn't think they are even them, when all he sees is him, himself, when there is nothing he can do about it, and what he does is he smashes mirrors that confirm his every thought.

There're days when he is pathetic.

  
There're days when he is puny, weak, pathetic, when he is a scared fool, when he is less than a fucking E. coli, when he is microscopic particles of dust that reside there in his throat, when he is nothing, appalling, horrible, disgusting, there're days when he hates himself, he hates everything about _him._

  
And then there're days when _he_ loves him.

Oh, does he love him.

He supports him. He is his only friend. He won't betray him. He tells him he hasn't always been him. Tells him he is not all he is. 

  
There're those days when he whispers in Tim's ear, speaking in Tim's own voice, and tells him fucking tales, tells him it is not him but them, _them_ , they are the ones who should not exist, that _his_ existence is their fault, that they've made him into this, into _him_ , him who they never mention as they whisper, cuddling and in tears, him who they never call by his fucking name that is fucking short, that is exactly as long as _him_ , him, that's how they call him, him, h i m - that cold, slick, coiling creature that only brings them pain, that does not deserve them, that must cease, him that is still alive, that is breathing, that is... well, wrongfully accused, that is i n n o c e n t, that has been captured by them, tortured with their stupid things they tell him, with their four dumb hands, with their fucking love he doesn't need, he doesn't need them and why is he the one who has to go, to fuck off, to lie there dead and rotting in the grave, on the dark dirty floor, why is he the one who is confined, what has he done to be punished so much, he only did what they wanted from him, he simply helped them, it was _charity_ , why must he suffer for it so much, why mustn't they and who the fuck are they, who are they, who are they to pity him, command him, alter him, who are they to love him, they don't deserve him, they don't even really love him, it's only him who loves him, it's only I, Tim, it's only---

  
Fuck, does he hate those days.

  
There're those days he hates, hates every thought he can remember and he remembers each and every one of them, he knows them by heart, he's heard them so many times, he hates those days and those thoughts, he hates himself when Ginger shivers, jumping, looking at him, as if asking if he could do what it is he was doing, if he could talk, smile, say _hello_ , ask questions, touch him, take a step, if he could breathe, as if Tim would fucking stop him, as if Tim _would_... 

Tim hates himself, because yes, he fucking would.

He hates those days and those thoughts he remembers when he does something and John blushes, giggles, smiles his coy smile, when John manages to do that after everything, when it is like the very first time, when John feels shocked by his own audacity, when John realizes that the person who's been standing here all along is Tim. 

The blond scum bastard he doesn't exactly like.

The one who's kind of hot.

The one he sticks his tongue out at.

Tim hates himself for what he's done to him, to that impulse, it is just an impulse, naive, innocent, it's even kind of sweet, and what has he done to it, to him, he dived deep, pulled that whim out and watered it and fed it, he turned it into tar, into lava, he's poisoned him and spoiled him, he crushed the marble with his teeth even though minerals are not his fucking food, couldn't resist, the little indulged monster looked so pretty, happy, so like him, like him, but better, like looking at him somehow absolved him, justified his actions, his fucking sins, his hungry bites that can change nothing, that only satisfy him, that doesn't even satisfy him, because he wants more, always more, more, as if he hasn't done enough.

Tim hates himself, because he still remembers the first time Ginger offered him his goddamn peanuts, remembers how he did that, remembers every word he said when Tim made _his_ fucking _offer_ , remembers how he couldn't see his face, how he could... how he made him feel, remembers everything, his long ass calls, his confessions, his frightened touch, his stupid scared fingers trembling in his pocket next to his own paln, Tim sees it is still the same, it is the same thing, it's just now it isn't only peanuts, it is everything, it's just now Tim discarding him is not the only thing Ginger is afraid of, which he still is, it's not his only fear - he is also afraid of Tim.

  
There're those days when he is afraid Tim, days Tim fucking hates, days when Ginger catches him, when he sees it coming before Tim, because Tim's perspective is already muddy, because Tim's fucking self has been praising him, there're those days when Ginger shivers, jumping, looking at him, and understands what will happen later, in an hour, in two, in five, in the evening, when Tim realizes that as well and Ginger tries to... to live the mirage, to convince Tim that this is fine, alright, it's gonna be okay, it hasn't even happened, nothing's happened, do you want some tea. 

There're those days when an hour goes by and Ginger jumps and shivers when Tim enters the damn room, two hours pass and Tim sees his back tense up, his fucking back with vertebrae that shouldn't be there, because he is a spineless, pathetic, disgusting creature, he is just goo, there're those days when Tim hates seeing that Ginger is afraid of him and chooses to blame him for that, not _him_ , oh, not him, him he fucking loves, he blames the goo and in five hours he has already said so and Ginger's nature has been mentioned too, the thing he is always speaks at length and in the evening it is conversing solely with him, they are together, against the whole world, against those fuckers that opress them with their feelings, they deserve much more, glory, admiration, worship, they mustn't be imprisoned like they are, in the evening Tim is there in his private chamber with the black hole in his mind, in the evening Tim is alone in there, in the evening Tim is _him._

  
There're those days when Tim understands it doesn't fucking matter if he's always been him, what is important is that he always _will_ , when Tim learns that there was a month he didn't notice, when Tim remembers the same thing happened not only to September, when Tim consults the calendar and those days are gone, those days which could've been those other days, those blissful days, not these pointless, rotten, dusty days, when Tim realizes there is a room in their house designed specifically for him and that room is... that fucking room, that is his cage, his grave, his last abode, there're those days when Tim knows it must be that, he must stay in there and he must leave, go, fuck off, disappear, get disposed of. Yes, he hasn't been yet, of course, he hasn't, but he must be tomorrow, today, right now, he must free them, he must free them of himself, and yes, they are dents, they are imprints of his own teeth, they are open wounds he turned them into, but they are also together, two shining idiots, they can _be_ without him, they can, he knows that, so maybe, maybe, he should let them, should let them fucking be, should stop gnawing on them and free them.

There're those days when Tim slowly dies on the floor of his dark room, when there is fear, anger, guilt, pathetic self pity, love, delusions, whispers, hate, disgust and shame, there're those days when as Tim exits it, walking out like something that still resembles a human being or crawling out like remains, exhausted and in anguish, there're those days when as he leaves the room he knows he must leave them, leave them alone, leave them be.

Must let them go.

  
And then there're those days when he doesn't do it.

  
Those days when he still clings to them.

  
There're those days when he's still there, his teeth sinking back in them, when he is what he is, when every surface that is smooth enough is his mirror and he can't stop looking at himself, at what he's done to them, those days when he doubts his own fucking wisdom, when the tune changes, when it is about what they are, about what they've done to him, what they've made him into, into that thing that's looking at him from inside the mirrors, that looks exactly like him, speaks in his own voice, breathes with him, _is_ him, there're those days when he hurts them, once again he hurts them, that's all he does, always hurts them, there're those days when he asks himself what for they even need him there, those days when he doesn't ask them, afraid to hear the answer, _answers_ , there're those days when he understands he mustn't be there, mustn't be at all, he must go, and those days when he does, when he _is not_ , when he is just an echo of a scream reflected off the bloody walls of the dark, empty, endless room.

  
There're those days when all Tim feels is happiness and love, when Tim looks at two idiots that make him happy and loves them with his whole radioactive heart, and that is all he does.

There're those days. There are.

  
But there're so, so many other days.

  
Tim dies on those days.

  
Tim must die faster.


	22. Between you and me and the flush tank

  
The sexiness of their bathroom increases exponentially.

The sexiness of their bathroom starts increasing by accident.

Em Am G G Em Gm Am Em F Em Dm Em C Dm G Am 

four times down

It's just that one morning that is actually an early afternoon Tim looks for smokes, longing for the harmful fumes once consciousness returns to him, and finds only empty packages, his anger increasing exponentially as well, but much more promptly, Tim abandoning the search and knocking on the door of the bathroom the early rising squid is occupying, waiting there patiently for his response and giving him his explanation, the door he knocked on opening uncertainly, a delightfully full package tucked in Tim's palm by Ginger's wavering tentacle the next second.

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"What's up?" Tim asks that very moment, not allowing him to close the door he opened so uncertainly. "What are you doing in there?"

Ginger squints at him and sighs.

"Tim," he says, as if Tim's name explains everything.

Tim tilts his head and smiles.

"Let me in," he says, pushing both Ginger's corporeal configuration and Ginger's sum and substance. "I wanna look."

"Tim," Ginger says again, this ejection of units of speech futile, the warhead already poking its ugly nose inside the tiled room. "I have a meeting soon."

"Yeah, and I need to make tedious calls and deal with tedious stuff and I'll probably fail doing that on the phone and will have to suffer through tedious meetings too," Tim voices his long objection, shutting the door behind them with his foot. "Come on, I'll keep my grabby hands to myself. I just wanna look."

ninety six, it's ninety six, you demented idiot

write it down already

"Fuck," Ginger voices his succinct frustration. "Okay. Fuck you, okay."

  
So Ginger slowly pulls down his boxers he hastily pulled up when Tim knocked on the door and sits on the toilet he'd been sitting on before Tim knocked on the door, and Tim hastily pulls out a cigarette he's been longing for and leans on the wall, prepared to have his day brightened by the sick saving graces he is not at all shy to request.

Then Tim inhales his favorite harmful fumes and ogles his favorite marine animal, Ginger first just trying his patience he's grown a bit of over the last years through vigorous exercise, shifting constantly, flapping his excessive limbs that cannot find any rest and darting his eyes to every surface and item in the bathroom, ignoring the predator, lacking tactical expertise, signalling his uneasiness with his entire form, all shades of red coloring his face one by one, then finally accepting the fate Tim predestined for him and doing what he'd been trying to do before Tim interrupted him by knocking, trying Tim's patience again, but now in a somewhat different fashion, Tim's morning annoyance giving way to Tim's unlawful interest that can be piqued twenty four seven, Ginger producing sequences of shameful sounds, panting and tensing up, all shades of red present on his face at once, Tim feeling things stirring both inside his chest and in his pants, bringing death and showing signs of life, feeling his mouth getting overrun by blood, joining Ginger in clenching his fists and keeping his detached position next to the wall, forgetting to inhale the harmful fumes he longed for so much just a few minutes ago, immersed in the sick saving graces that most definitely help him to get through his tedious day, making it exciting, Tim excited, Tim keeping his distrubing elation and his agitated hands to himself, planting a kiss on Ginger's forehead after he's done with his disconcerting task, taking several quick steps towards him once Ginger's wet eyes acknowledge his predatorial presense, Ginger darting a glance at him and averting his gaze just as promptly as Tim takes his quick steps because Tim takes them, Tim catching Ginger's changing facial expressions nevertheless and alleviating his concerns, keeping his promise, keeping his grabby hands to himself.

"Thank you," Tim says, planting a kiss on Ginger's sweaty forehead, and exits their still relatively modest bathroom, proceeding to engage in intricate cutting of edible materials in the kitchen, cooking breakfast for Ginger and having a cigarette after his own he's just finished, developing a longing for tobacco once again, satisfying the same desire of Ginger's when he enters the culinary paradise a few minutes later.

  
Several days after that Tim repeats the steps he's taken to intensify the sexiness of their bathroom and keeps repeating them over and over again, steadily and almost silently, until the level of sickness and perversion becomes permanent and the sickness and perversion themselves regular, Tim standing there leaning on the wall every other day, shamelessly staying through the whole shameful process Ginger shares with him as a part of their freshly formed tradition, leaving his corporeal configuration untouched apart from the kisses he keeps planting on his sweaty forehead, leaving his own stiff and aching corporal punishment of a cock untouched as well, the only chamber that earns some filling being his mouth, tobacco finding its way inside it, his other inner voids preoccupied with different sorts of longing, Tim doing nothing to help himself, just smoking and watching and listening and drowning and captivated and feeling the taste of Ginger's sum and substance on his tongue and moving it after Ginger finishes serving it to him, producing scarce phonemes and thanking him and exiting the room in favor of other premises, walking out on wobbly legs, but with unwavering determination, Ginger letting him look at him sitting on the toilet every other day, letting him into the bathroom or letting him follow him there, repeating his voluntary and involuntary motions for Tim's ceaseless entertainment and for he cannot do otherwise, pulling down his boxers and fumbling with everything within his reach, cigarette packages and paper rolls and dirty socks and boring books and the hem of his own wifebeater falling victim to the twitching of his scared fingers, his eyes marking every surface and item in the bathroom fourteen billion times over, Tim's predatorial frame gradually earning his attention too, appearing in all its glory, brought into existence by Ginger's fearful gaze, acknowledged and permitted and accepted, exuding its unlawful interest with its every geometrical shape and every chemical state and every physical property, Ginger himself excreting sweat and heat and worry and air and color and some other, more tangible substances Tim is present there for, tossed and turned in the frying pan like smelly and appetizing and overly alluring and fucking magnetic street food right before Tim's salivating hungry trap full of teeth until Tim breaks that gravitational attraction and escapes the force field through the bathroom door, surrendering his gratitude after Ginger yet again surrendered himself.

It is maybe only on the sixth or on the seventh occasion, Tim doesn't remember which it was, that he gets caught by the relentless pull, failing to resist the fundamental interactions, but not upset by his defeat in the slightest in the end.

"Thank you," he says as usual that day, having taken his quick wobbly steps towards Ginger and performed his osculation ritual on him, ready to take care of his other duties.

"Tim," Ginger says quietly, as if his name was ever enough to stop him, but this time it is.

Ginger says his name, and Tim stops, towering above him an insignificant distance away, Ginger still sitting on the toilet with his boxers pulled down, still blushing and sweaty and breathing heavily and clearly feeling like he is covered in much more shit than he actually is, Tim just still and motionless and frozen in front of him, the force field taking hold of him, Ginger taking hold of him as well, but much more gently than the tension, lifting his slightly trembling hand off his slightly trembling thigh and brushing it against the cloth that's covering Tim's aching fucking cock, criminally erect in his pants, and looking up at Tim's distorted face, criminally haunted on display, running his stupid reckless fingers over his length and swallowing hard.

"What?" Tim asks, responding with vibration going through his metal shell at Ginger's touch and adding vocal avarice to the question that escapes his contracting throat, Tim himself forgoing escape, yielding to the pull and generating one of his own, one that never fails to capture Ginger.

"I want to... I want to suck you off," Ginger answers, offering a transaction to a creature that preys on others, endless longing and affection his inner voids are full of his only bargaining chip.

90 ≤ Z ≤ 100 and 2Z - N = 43 ± 2

"By all means," Tim says, closing the deal instantly, their interests perfectly aligned, putting his grabby hands behind his back and interlocking his fingers, giving Ginger access to the vaults he keeps his nightmarish treasures in, letting him caress the cloth his cock is trapped under and unzip his pants, freeing the leaking prisoner, his tentacles tender, agitated, startled by their own motions, letting him caress his callous skin his overheating skull is hidden under, his eyes warm, dark, ever scared by what they see and with good reason, Tim making efforts to avoid collapsing on the floor or colliding with the ground right there and then and letting Ginger catch his liberated cock once again, his lips soft, faithful and devoted to what they are stretched around, a moan accompanying the inviting gesture, the sound wave propelling Tim to narrate his requests in response.

"Hair," he says and submits a smile that cuts his toothy snout in half, Ginger hastily developing a corresponding wish and removing every obstruction, tucking the loose strands behind his ears, showing his fracturing features, the view inspiring Tim to continue making propositions.

"Spine," he says and offers a snarl that expels the blood out of his constricted throat, Ginger pulling his wifebeater up his biologically transgressive back, Tim baring his teeth at the sight of bare skin Ginger's impossible vertebrae reside under, staring intently at every surface and item beneath him, following the maddening curvature of Ginger's spinal column with his eyes and clenching his fists behind his back, composing tunes for the beat Ginger is moving his head to, the rhythm slow, faltering, Ginger's head struck by a massive nuke, shifting his admiration to Ginger's open face and Ginger's open mouth and Ginger's open inner chambers, biting his lips his teeth are not concealed by and biting down on Ginger's corresponding vocal offering.

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axis

"Choke," he says and omits all other words, omits raw meat and pickled tears, omits pain and misery, omits happiness and pleasure, omits everything he got and is getting and will get fourteen billion times more, receiving all of that nevertheless, Ginger's back decorated with his wifebeater hitched up it going tense and Ginger's shoulders his hair strands are touching going tense and Ginger's throat that is constricted just as much as Tim's going tense, Ginger's aspirations a perfect reflection of Tim's twisted ones, Ginger pushing his tense body and his nukestruck head and himself to meet Tim's cock, to take it as deep as he can and past that point, tears starting to run down his face regardless of volition, Tim enjoying him choking himself on him, inept might his performance be, clumsy efforts he is making only adding to Tim's continuous amusement and drawing matching exertion out of him.

Ginger asks for it without the use of phonemes, turning to the language of their natural habitat for help instead, his tentacles darting up Tim's infinitely dense body and searching blindly for something, longing to be held, taken captive, destroyed and incinerated, longing to be loved and wanted, supported and collaborated with, Ginger himself not voicing his request, Ginger himself saying nothing at all, Tim unlocking his fingers and removing his hands from behind his back and grabbing Ginger's searching sprouts and crushing them without mercy, putting all of his missing heart into it, doing his part and doing it expertly.

"Swallow," he says, enjoying his own expertise and Ginger's sobbing reaction to it immensly, Ginger carrying out his command and granting him his demand at the same time, choking on his come and wailing, breathless and hurt, Tim ingesting his raw flesh and his vulnerable essence Ginger is there to let him gorge on, gritting his teeth, ruthless and harmful, leaving Ginger's tears unabsorbed and leaving Ginger's mouth once all his nuclear supply has been depleted, taking a step back and collecting the salty water off Ginger's now shattered face and shoving his wandering fingers between his parted lips and feeding him his own dessert, Ginger licking his own pain and misery off Tim's digits, failing to express his fucking gratitude, his voice just as lost as he himself is, succeeding in expressing his predilection, kissing Tim's wandering fingers even after all the tears they've been transferring disappear, either consumed or vaporized, Tim combing his wet hair with his free hand emitting roaring energy, Tim emitting chuckles every other time Ginger's breath catches, Ginger's frame shudders, Ginger's stupid head presses into Tim's body keeping its stationary position in front of him for a couple of eternities.

  
The sexiness of their bathroom takes a giant leap maybe six or seven days after that, Tim not sure about the exact date, not as inclined as Ginger to count things, inclined instead to go on with his observational visits, standing there leaning on the wall and smoking and silent and achingly hard, his teeth sore, his muscles strained, his body full of plutonium that is longing to get free, Tim full of his own predilections, his infinitely dense body a sight to behold, Ginger sitting on the toilet and staring at him every time he stands there leaning on the wall, all other surfaces and items in the bathroom abandoned now, forgotten and forlorn, Ginger's hands twitching in his lap, Ginger's lips constantly bitten, Ginger's eyes cautiosly shifting their attention away from his own inner vaults full of disgust and shame and hatred pointed into the wrong direction, vectors confused and lost between the trees the woods Ginger keep traversing consist of, full of worry and fear and stupid embarrassement which shouldn't be allowed to be present in the room, Ginger's eyes finding their way into Tim's fucked up chambers through the wide open doors, Tim standing still and taking it, standing still and giving it, acknowledged and permitted and accepted himself, Ginger having a hard time accepting Tim's tiny insufficient sacrifices, Tim inviting him in just like he himself has been invited, both of them now trapped in their dirty ritual, both of them the spectator and the film, Ginger emptying his intestines no matter what it does to him, Tim pulling his own guts out, showing what it does to _him_.

The leap is taken on that day Tim never marked in his calendar and the ritual is broken too.

And for once, it is partly Ginger's fault.

  
Tim follows him into the bathroom in the morning, closing the door behind them and taking his usual post, a cigarette in his mouth, an early rising erection in his pants, Ginger taking his place on the toilet, a cigarette package in his hands, pants not present on his body, boxers pulled down, head slightly tilted up, eyes moving over Tim's immobile figure. 

Ginger fumbles with a package for some time, turning his head down, then taking a fleeting glance at Tim again, throwing away the package, sighing and slowly getting up, Tim frowning, but only for a fraction of a second, Ginger discarding his boxers entirely and taking off his wifebeater too, hesitation obvious in his every move, shapes Tim's face breaks into obviously awry and malformed, Ginger not a witness to them, his gaze that has been fixed on Tim for the last six or seven days now averted, Ginger sitting down again, shifting awkwardly and breathing audibly, wrapping his uncertain tentacle around his gradually enlarging cock, his other shaking hand first just creating chaos in his lap, then finding its course and reaching its destination, landing on Ginger's chest, Ginger brushing his fingers over his nipple and exhaling with a moan, Tim shaking with much higher amplitude than Ginger's travelling extremity, electrical shocks going through his body, the warheads in his chest lost and confused in the skies they keep terrorizing, Tim thinking that he has mere seconds left and that it possibly cannot get any worse, making what seems to be a pretty big mistake, the comparison he draws at the moment not his most sound one. 

Tim makes a mistake, the situation getting much, much worse, growing dire, Ginger tensing up for a few seconds, his shoulders and his arms and his abdomen and his legs and even his ludicrous kinky feet strained, tensing up and then letting go, doing what Tim follows him into the bathroom for, excreting substances that are of a particular interest to him, his shaking hand still shaking and still wrapped around his cock, moving slowly and stumbling, his other hand also continuing its journey on his chest, Tim seeing red on his face, shame and fear and wrongful agitation in full bloom, the natural impulse to run away clearly visible in his whole form, the natural impulse to freeze and stay where he is winning the battle, Ginger stubbornly occupying his spot in the pillory, emptying his guts and emptying his tender inner vaults and making efforts to eject the come as well, Tim pressed into the wall by the gravity of the dire situation he finds himself in, by the gravity that changes vectors and pulls him to the only object that is present in his current universe, envying Ginger's enormous resolve, his chambers that contain his will and his determination utterly devastated, the overly alluring street food braising itself right before his eyes that are ready to burst, Ginger taking another step to facilitate both his and his own undoing and lifting his eyes, Tim losing his shit that very instance while Ginger keeps jerking off and losing his, taking his rapid steps towards him, emitting radiation and catapulting a string of indecent bombs out of his mouth, spiralling out of control, collapsing on the floor right between Ginger's shaking legs and colliding with his bony knees and with the ininviting tiles on the floor, bruising his fucking knees, performing feats of great strength and dramatic skill, operating his barely present navigational systems and keeping his tamed hands to himself, grabbing a handful of his aching cock through his pants and a handful of his lower jaw by his teeth, pulling his trap wide open, his shark snout an insignificant distance away from Ginger's cock, proximity even more excruciating than his own nasty grip, Ginger's fucking mouth falling wide open at Tim's actions topping that, Tim staring up at his gasping dumbfounded face, his shock on display, Ginger staring down at his haunted snarling muzzle, Tim's urges not concealed either, Ginger's hand stuttering on his cock and his other hand commiting atrocious war crimes, Ginger squeezing it between his trembling thighs and moaning pitifully at his own filthy touch, earning himself a tribunal Tim is going to be holding the scales of justice at, chanting Tim's name, requesting his attention as if it wasn't already completely on him and informing Tim of his imminent orgasm, his voice full of tears and broken breaths, his speech full of fucks, this traditionally surrendered information very useful, Tim letting go of his teeth and slapping Ginger's sweaty hand away, figuring he is doing the very opposite of grabbing and thus isn't breaking any promises, gagging himself on Ginger's cock and allowing, inviting, forcing him to spill down his throat, Ginger doing exactly that for vile things to keep flourishing inside TIm's exploding chest and for he really, really cannot do otherwise at the moment, Tim engaging in his usual insatiable swallowing for the sake of the vile hunger efflorescing inside his poisonous heart and for he could never do otherwise, capturing Ginger's tentacle that is wedged between his thighs and falling face forward on his soiled hand, pressing into his palm smeared in filth and pressing his own hand into his excruciated cock, filth of a different sort soon appearing in his pants, Tim himself forgoing keeping his fucking promises and keeping his grabby hands to himself, figuring he just might at this point, him not the only criminal in the room, both of them in this unlawful shit together.

"You know, it's really not alright to molest such young and innocent bathrooms like that, you crap delinquent," Tim grumbles against Ginger's infringing tentacle covered in dirt, and Ginger laughs, softly and delicately and for fourteen billion years, Tim resting his sinful head on his thigh and chuckling, sharp and rude and wearing a very appropriate make up for the occasion.

  
Several somewhat less unsanitary days Tim doesn't mark in his calendar pass.

  
"How about we make the shit fucking real?" Tim offers one evening in a quiet voice and offers Ginger his palm full of hazelnuts, both of them covered with an infinite number of blankets, sitting there in their hideout, titles of the movie neither of them watched frozen on the screen of the TV in front of them, Tim picking up the conversation, Ginger picking up a mouthful of nuts with his mouth and frowning, confused.

"What?" he asks, chewing, patiently waiting for Tim to drag him into some shady business.

"The shit fucking," Tim says, throwing some nuts in his trap too, dragging Ginger into the final assualt on their bathroom. "How about we make it into, well, _shit_ fucking?"

Ginger stops chewing and studies his face for several seconds, as if trying to discern if Tim can be trusted.

"Do you... Do you mean..." he starts, failing to make the right conclusion.

"Yeah," Tim says, eager to narrate his evil plan and rob their bathroom of it's decency entirely. "First you make everything I've ever said about your hole true. And then I fuck it."

Ginger swallows the nuts he's been chewing and shifts under an infinite number of blankets covering his body.

"I uh... Why?" he asks, questioning either the wisdom of Tim's evil plan or the sanity of the mastermind himself, or quite possibly both.

Tim shrugs.

"Because I wanna be the most disgusting person in the whole state," he says, citing vanity as his first reason to offend the law.

Ginger laughs, clearly not understanding the severity of the proposed misdemeanor yet.

"And because I love your fucking shit and can never get enough of it," Tim continues, citing greed as his second reason to commit unlawful acts.

Ginger bites his lips and looks around the room, casing the surroundings.

"And because it is going to break you beautifully," Tim goes on, citing his natural felonious inclination as his main reason to perpetrate. "And broken is how I like you the most."

Ginger shivers and closes his eyes.

"I mean, I can also just make you do it," Tim says, citing his prior criminal experience in all its glory as a reason to become involved in the escapade Ginger's evaluating. "I can simply tell you to, and you will do it, won't you, Ginger?"

Ginger glances at him, studying his villainous facial expression. Then he nods, and Tim's nasty grin becomes even wider.

"Food," he says, shaking his head and pulling Ginger closer, making him a part of the gang. "Fucking food."

Ginger quotes their notorious motto, simultaneously falling into his arms, his navigational array malfunctioning again, the navigational array not present among his biological machinery, because squid don't have it.

Warheads do.

"Sure," Tim says, chuckling. "Anyway, it's not what I want. I don't want you to be my victim. I want you to be my partner. Together we'll achieve greatness. Synergy and so on, you know."

"I uh..." Ginger starts uncertainly, still trying to stay a law abiding citizen.

"You liked it, didn't you?" Tim interrupts him, turning to look at him and extending his corrupting influence, taking Ginger's tentacle in his own hand, interlocking their fingers. "You liked me being there with you."

"Yeah," Ginger says after a brief period of oscillation, averting his gaze.

"Why?" Tim says, pulling his head up by the chin. "Tell me why you liked it."

Ginger swallows hard and licks his lips.

"Because of how you were looking at me," he says slowly, his words becoming whispers over the course of his utterance, and neither vanity, nor greed are his reasons to be a member of Tim's crime syndicate. "Because of what it... Because I could see how much you liked it. Liked _me_."

Tim smiles, looking at Ginger's pale face with red spots appearing on his cheeks and enjoying this view immensly.

"And how did it make you feel?" he asks, not letting any obstruction cloud it.

"I uh..." Ginger says, pinned in place at gun point. "Happy."

Tim releases him, knowing for sure he wouldn't run away, being an expert in recognizing his surrender, having seen it many, many times before, and grabs at the cigarette package instead, eager to discuss the finer details of his evil plan, and Ginger accepts both the cigarette he shoves in his mouth and the terms he forces on him, staying with him in their wooly hideout.

"So why all the hesitation?" Tim inquires, urging Ginger to confess his maleficent credentials.

His recruit show signs of understandable disquiet this job interview causes him.

"You've seen my massive shitboner, right?" Tim asks, showing him a helping pathway into the world of crime. "And whatever was happening on my fucking face." He makes a vague gesture, circling his smoking snout. "A grin that is two times wider than my ugly mug, was it, I suppose?"

Ginger nods, letting out a soft laugh.

"So you do know I am not disgusted by you," Tim says, being his obliging mentor.

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out, a smile appearing on his lips for a moment. "It's just..." Tim watches him expectantly, waits for him to speak. "I am."

Tim exhales, downcast at this admission, sound coming out loud and frustrated, and the infinite number of blankets they are covered with suddenly becomes not enough to keep him warm.

"Fuck," Tim says, voice gritty, his smoking mouth in a thin line, his fists clenched. "Shut up. You shouldn't be."

And it is not that he's rude, though he is, he is ill-mannered, he's a jailshark, it's just he's heard most of it before and that time, those times, he said _tell me_ , he said _please_. 

"Tim, I..." Ginger opens his smoking mouth, his pitiful objections falling out of it, the ashes falling off his cigarette. "It's... I am fucking---"

"You aren't," Tim shakes his head, a taste of bile on his tongue. "You dumb motherfucker. Why do I always have to repeat myself? You---"

in shallow water species, the penis is short

"Tim," Ginger interrupts him stubbornly.

"No," Tim says, not having it, fed up with things that are not at all delicious. "You're perfect. I mean, sure, you are the cheesiest and the nerdiest bastard to ever play in a rock band, and you constantly lament the dirty socks you have to pick up off the floor and you drink repugnant tea that tastes like dirty socks and juice that's made out of fucking grass, and you ask the most ridiculous questions like dreary Spanish inquisition and make me suffer through each and every goddamn holiday I don't give a fuck about, and your idea of time spent well is reading tedious bullshit on the toilet whereas it's actually much, much better to get fucked bent over it, not to mention that you still try to fucking hide your awesome morning erection from me even though you've fucking signed it over to me and your cock is mine, alright?"

Ginger starts laughing, and Tim feels that the heat is back on in their secret shelter.

"That's all true," he says, chuckling too. "But you're still kinda perfect, you know. You stupid squid. You stupid fucking sea monster."

The stupid sea monster sighs and floats even closer to him, propelled by the current, his dumb annoying head falling on Tim's unsympathetic shoulder.

"It's just..." Ginger speaks again after some seconds filled with silence and smoke. "I'm... Tim, I'm shitting while you look at me. Do you understand that? _Shitting_. Do I have to... Can't I fucking feel happy without that? Does it have to be this? It's fucking sick, Tim."

"It isn't," Tim spits out, his unsympathetic shoulder tensing up under Ginger's stubborn head.

"And it... It hurts," Ginger adds quietly, and Tim is mute for a while.

"I know," he says, putting out his cigarette. "But it's not sick."

"Tim, it... Fuck, I'm just..." Ginger goes on. "You fucking stand there and look at me as if I'm---"

"God, shut up," Tim cuts him short, not putting up with that. "I've fucking made it hurt, alright? I made it sick. I mean, okay, it's not like you hadn't been best friends with misery before I grinded you with my teeth, because it seems you had." Ginger shivers. "But I've made it a permanent part of your life, Ginger."

"Tim, you... You're---"

"What, now I am perfect?" Tim says, raising his voice. "I am a shit, Ginger. I am the most repulsive bastard you could live with. I throw dirty socks on the floor and I throw away your fucking tea that's made of grass that's yours to keep. I finish your abominable juice that tastes like grass when I am hangover and berate it afterwards. I talk in annoying fucking metaphors like a self-important troubadour who won't shut up. I only listen to like ten percent of what you're saying and I sabotage ninety percent of what you want me to do no matter how important it is to you. I barge in on unsuspecting creatures in the bathroom and treat their bowel movements as my jerk off material. I make endangered marine animals amuse me with their awesome cocks, because I am fucking grumpy in the morning, and I treat them like my breakfast, okay?"

Ginger laughs again, his hand covering his mouth, muffling the sounds, and Tim puts his face into his hair and his persuasive lips on his moronic head.

"I've made misery your fucking spouse, Ginger," he says, breathing in the smell of salt and breathing out the smell of bile. "I've made you share a roof with it. You do understand that, don't you?"

The pause that happens after that lasts a bit less than universe's long and eventful life.

"Yeah," Ginger says, his hands now twitching in his lap.

"Right," Tim breathes out the sour phonemes.

The pause that happens after that terminates in sweetness and devotion.

"But..." Ginger says and puts his tentacle on Tim's strained arm and lifts his troubled head. 

"What?" Tim asks, his teeth he grinded Ginger with now gritted.

"You've made me happy too."

Tim laughs, and it turns out, that their hideout was not a couch, but a nuclear power plant all along.

It also turns out, that nuclear facilities are a pretty suitable spot for sucking faces.

"Well then," Tim speaks again, returning to the pressing topic of the evening, when even Ginger chokes on sugar, when they break the kiss. "Let us bring more joy into your fucking life. Let's create some crappy bliss together."

Ginger licks his tired lips, Tim shoving a smoke between his.

"Yeah, okay," Ginger says, signing on with the same compliance he signed himself away. "I... I want to do it."

"Alright," Tim says, quirking his exhausted lips, Ginger snatching the smoke from him. "Partner."

And after that they kill some hours Tim doesn't tally either, armed with shared cigarettes and heartless fingers lost in dirty hair and reckless heads lost to disasters resting in accommodating laps and blankets treacherously sliding down and exposing their vile sanctuary and only one pair of pants, the gruesome murder they commit quite probably an ideal one.

  
Several more exceptionally clean days pass in preparation for the final assualt.

  
"Come on, partner," Tim offers some encouragement in a tense voice and offers Ginger to fill up his palm, both of them naked and exposed, sitting there in front of each other, Ginger on the toilet, Tim on the floor, Tim carrying on with the conversation, Ginger more reluctant to do his part.

But before Tim makes his verbal donation they arm themselves with lube and smokes and put both items to good use, Ginger soothing his nervous lips with nicotine, Tim spooking his twitchy ass with a viscous liquid covering his intruding fingers, Ginger taking hasty drags, his hand hovering in the air, Tim making steady stretching efforts, his hand trapped in tight heat, a shockwave going through Ginger's body once that searching hand finds a purchase, a shockwave emanating from Tim's nuclear disaster of a chest.

"Is it..." Ginger asks, wondering about the nature of this obstruction.

"Yeah," Tim says, confirming his timid speculation, a toothy grin dividing his snout in half, making his short speech even more convincing.

"Oh," Ginger lets out a breath, his whole body going tense, the density of it increasing under pressure.

"And we need more of it," Tim says, urging him to vacate not only his lungs, but also his bowels, his fingers gliding over the ring of muscles, probing the barrier.

"Fuck," Ginger says, putting out his cigarette and brushing against Tim's arm that rests between his thighs with his self-conscious fingers. "Can you..."

"Nope," Tim shakes his head, his shameless hand staying where it was. "I wanna touch you while you do it."

"Tim," Ginger gasps out, as if it is his name that is to be feared.

"Yeah," Tim nods, confirming that it is he himself. "I want you to shit in my palm. Okay?"

Ginger closes his eyes briefly, Tim patiently waiting for his reply, impatiently rubbing at his hole.

"Fuck, okay," Ginger says after a few seconds, his eyes now open and fixed on Tim. "Yeah, okay. Just..."

"What?" 

"Can you stop for a bit? I... I need to relax."

"Sure," Tim says, willing to make small sacrifices after the main agreement has been reached. "That I can do."

So Tim pauses his steady stretching efforts, letting his hand hang down between Ginger's agitated thighs, Ginger's agitated thighs and his body tensing up after a moment, Ginger pushing himself over the edge, illegal atom combinations Tim finds intriguing finding freedom, broken breaths bursting out of Ginger's mouth, Tim's rested hand picking up its duties, finding its intended target, Tim's fingers yet again landing on Ginger's now also busy hole, Ginger himself swearing in response and freezing, caught in the force field.

"Come on, partner," Tim says then, insisting on continuation with a smile that is made of teeth, gnawing carefully on Ginger's shit reluctance, and things proceed, affected by his verbal magic and his illicit camaraderie, Tim's fingers on and in and around Ginger's not exactly clean hole, touching, pushing, brushing, pressing in, bold and daring between Ginger's weak-kneed body parts, Ginger's anxious hand deciding to engage in travelling as well, flying up like a fearful turbojet, Ginger covering his mouth, the seriousness of the crime they are commiting dawning on him, crushing down on him, Ginger crushing his own jaw, both his lips and his knuckles white.

"Don't hide," Tim says, creating an opposing impulse with his enchanted words. "Don't run away. Let me see."

And Ginger moans and swears at that, his shaking hand leaving its blushing residing place just like the filth Tim's palm is by then full of abandonds its reservoir, both those spots uncovered and open to attack, Ginger sitting still and accepting what is coming and what's already come, Tim carrying out his onslaught with his soiled hand that is made of bliss and with his eyes that exhibit predatory longing, Ginger staying a full-fledged member of their unlawful assembly, the bathroom robbery going on.

"Beautiful," Tim says, picking locks with his satanic spells, seeing what Ginger lets him see, looking at red spots fully formed on his white skin and at every tear that runs down his dichromatic face, knowing that the dire situation they put themselves in does to him and showing what it puts _him_ through, displaying his dental avarice, spitting out ionizing blood and poisonous words, Ginger failing to supress his shivering and panting and profane and surrendering and helpless and companionate reactions, his response of equal force to Tim's incursion, fundamental laws of physics still obeyed. "Delicious. Broken. Ruined. Terrified. Illegal. Impossible. Chimerical fucking shitmess of a squid."

Tim gets up abruptly like a frenzied warhead once the ritual is finished, the last evil incantation falling out of his panegyric singing trap, the shameful dirt completely liberated and their previously unsullied bathroom crumbling down under the assault, his ocean dwelling partner shaking uncontrollably in his disreputable seat. Tim gets up and frees his hand that has been squeezed between Ginger's trembling thighs, that has been touching him and stretching him and pressing into him and squashing, smearing, grinding what was leaving him, Tim frees his hand and busies it right away, Tim puts it on his own aching cock and squashes it and grinds it and smears it with the shameful dirt, pushing into his soiled palm that has been tainted by his uncontrollably shaking ocean dwelling partner, that creature letting out a pathetic sob, Tim himself issuing a snarl, the decency of their bathroom evenly affected by both sounds, the decency of their bathroom devastated, Tim's frantic gaze leaving the debauchery he brings into being with his own filthy touch, Tim's frantic gaze now on the miserable dichromatic face of another crap delinquent.

"Close your stupid mouth," Tim chuckles, noticing the said indictable offender staring at the same debauchery Tim's just been carefully observing with gasping panicked awe. "Close your stupid mouth or you'll catch a shitty fucking cock in it."

Ginger jumps in his disreputable seat, hearing that, he jumps, and laughter's added to what he is shaking with, he bites his smiling lips and wipes his crying eyes and pushes his sweaty hair off his fever-stricken face, and the next stage of their indecent heist takes place right after that.

"Get up. Let's fuck your crap back up where it belongs," Tim says, bringing it about, giving rise to spatial changes, Ginger leaving the disreputable seat he's been laughing in and turning around on unsteady feet, bending slightly and arching his back, Tim clenching his soiled fist seeing the amenable curvature of his spine, following twenty odd outrageous vertebrae with his eyes, the first seven or eight of them concealed by Ginger's sweaty hair sticking to his shoulders and covering the back of his neck, Ginger granting Tim another view, his sweaty hands covering his cheeks and pulling them apart, Tim gritting his blood stained teeth at the unsanitary sight, grabbing at the lube, determined to corrupt everything and everyone in the room even more. 

Ginger lets out a moan, when Tim smears his already squalid hole with the viscous liquid and rubs at the insufficiently relaxed muscles with his heartless fingers.

"Fuck," Ginger gasps, swaying at the touch, getting closer and shifting away, whirling around the trees of the woods he is lost in. "Tim, is it..."

"It sure is," Tim interrupts his enquiry with yet another confirmation, knowing what's of a particular interest to the magical marine animals, being a member of that fauna as well. "Vile, filthy, open fucking shithole full of diarrhea."

Ginger's response to this resolute statement of his threatens their bathroom attack with failure, Ginger liquifying at his words, looking like he is about to fall on the floor with a splash and flood the tiles that caused bruising to his and to Tim's knees over the course of their nasty visits to those premises, Ginger's sweaty hand with white knuckles leaving his cheeks and landing on the wall, scraping for purchase, Tim's fiery hand that's lacking mercy flying up and grabbing Ginger's hair, the seven or eight previously hidden vertebrae now presented to him, Tim taking a quick short decisive step forward, pushing inside Ginger's ass he paid so much of his eloquent attention to over the course of their interspecific relationship, his vile filthy fingers pressing into the opening alongside his cock, stretching it and touching it and caressing it in a fashion that isn't careful at all, his other wicked hand pulling at Ginger's hair, making him arch, making him slide deeper onto his cock, his detestable speech apparatus producing radioactive snarls, Ginger's oral cavity full of sobbing moans and pathetic calls to arms, Tim thrusting in and letting out his cataclysmic warheads full of imploding plutonium.

"You steaming, squirming, stinking pile of perverted shit," Tim says some time later, reallocating praise and shifting the blame, lifting his overheating head and feeling dizzy at the motion, lifting his head and abandoning the view he's been immersed in for the previous minutes and getting struck by another sight, that sight hitting him in the face and being Ginger's fucking face, Ginger's dazed, dumbfounded fucking face half-turned to him, Ginger staring at him over the shoulder, his eyes wide-open, fixed on him, his eyes still reflecting Tim's own haunted shark snout, all fourteen billion years of obsessive, pathological, overkeen observation of his own filthy cock entering and exiting Ginger's soiled hole replayed in them as if in the magical mirror used in shitvoodoo by a shitcoven of shitwitches, Tim's antecedent most indiscreet spits of phonemes reaching his own ears, echoing, reflected by the crumbling walls of the bathroom, travelling in time from recent past to the very frantic present, Tim's slippery dirty fingers that know no compassion but emanate energy and nasty odours leaving Ginger's hole they've been obsessively touching, rubbing, stretching, hurting, torturing while galaxies were acquiring their contemporary spatial positions, leaving it and flying up, forces changing directions, Tim pulling at Ginger's hair even harder, making him turn his shitmess of a head even more, making everything visible and vivid and transparent, holding his dirty fingers next to Ginger's soft warm parted lips, waiting, letting him gasp, letting him sob, letting him swallow his tears, letting him make his own fucked up decisions about swallowing the lure that's covering his extended hand.

Tim's next vocal performance doesn't happen for a while after that, his throat collapsing, roaring nuclear exhaust blocking it, his breath growing larger than life, achieving a magnitude of a fucking earthquake, Tim hearing the hum of the volatile death carriages intermixing with Ginger's overwhelmed panting, mute and deaf because of it, almost blind because of the waterfalls of blood appearing before his eyes, blinking at the visual flashes, at the shaking image of Ginger's shaking hands smearing the wall in sweat and fear, at the shaking image of Ginger's arched neck, exposed with all the ilicit vertebrae supporting it, exposed by his own unwavering hand, at the shaking image of Ginger's shattering features, the fucking gardens of Babylon in full bloom on his face, driving Tim to the edge, causing a meltdown in his chest, the impossible squid committing deplorable sins and commiting himself to the thermonuclear flames, taking Tim's expectant fingers in his breathless mouth between his choking moans, licking filth off them, pledging allegiance to the life of evil transgressions, Tim delivering condemning thrusts with his hips, completely indulgent himself, moltenhearted to the point of goddamn benevolence, driving Ginger to the edge, causing the orgasmic wave that overcomes him while he laments his non-existent vices around Tim's fingers whose patience bore apples in the gardens of fucking heaven, Ginger's hole hot and tight and clenching around Tim like a metaphorical and also not present vice, Tim constricted by the pressure to the size of a point particle, following him into the depraved abyss and coming himself and finding an even deeper pit to fall into, being a much bigger pile of perverted limbs.

Tim stumbles back after Ginger comes, clenching around his soiled cock and moaning around his soiled fingers, Tim stumbles back after he himself comes a second later, convulsing in the force field like an electrocuted shark, Tim pulls his wicked hand out of Ginger's mouth and pulls at his hair in a new fashion, working the lever and turning his gooey body around its axis, Tim avoids actual collapsing, his wretched shaking legs keeping him upright for the time being, Tim puts his heinous hand covered in Ginger's saliva on his cock covered in Ginger's shit and engages in a more symbolic type of a downfall, first hastily coating his palm in the disreputable substance and then cleaning it off it with an even higher speed, with a rabid velocity and a rabid facial expression and a rabid soundwave generated by his snarling shiteating trap, swiping his tongue over and around his fingers, licking them and sucking them and biting them and almost devouring them, devoted in his consumption both to the meal and to the chef, emptying the inner treasuries in front of him with no concerns for the future, Ginger a spacy, stunned exhibit standing opposite of him, somehow still a relatively solid object and not a puddle of jelly on the floor, standing there in the middle of the ruins of their bathroom's decorum, transfixed by Tim's show, staring at him even more intently than he was while they were still colliding, drinking in the sight and gulping, swallowing down the remnants of the manure Tim is gorging on, Tim finishing with his endeavour and feeling finished himself, the future imminently arriving, Tim flopping on the floor and bruising his fucking knees on the shards of tiles that are covering it, a crap terrorist in the epicenter of a contamination disaster, looking up Ginger as if he's being expelled from the gardens of fucking heaven and Ginger's a wrathy divine being, which neither of them clearly is, Ginger proving to him that he is a celestial creature of a different variety, taking a breath that is as deep as the ocean and taking a dive that is as reckless as a journey to the stars, his sweaty hand with white knuckles disappearing behind his back only to appear again in the air Tim feels on his shark snout, Ginger collecting another portion of the disreputable substance and gifting it to Tim, preparing the last supper for the Lucifer, Tim suffocating at the occasion and choking on the dirty meal that's so kindly offered to him, sweeping his tongue over Ginger's filthy tentacle, finding it with his hungry trap, finding it innocent, exonerating it from dirt and from all charges, exculpating it from suspicions, Ginger falling into his arms once all the sins have been absolved, falling on the tiled floor right next to him, their shared ragged breath the only thing Tim hears for a couple of the ages of the universe and the most perfect symphony.

It's only after Tim hears Ginger calling him insane, surrendering his impressions of Tim's creative piece of performance art, giving him a verbal cue, the audible wave of pressure escaping his lips equal to that of another, more frequent statement of his, it's only after that that Tim produces a coherent sentence. But before that happens Tim collects both his own and Ginger's remains off the bathroom remains and fills their hollows with water, evicting it out of their mouths bent over the sink, kicking out the bacteria without even saying goodbye to the microscopic bastards, sticking fingers down his own and Ginger's throats, smearing his oral cavity in bile and helping Ginger do the same, his heartless hands getting filthy after having been cleaned again, Tim falling on the bed once vomiting has been dealt with, getting engulfed in Ginger's germinating plasma, Ginger covering his shit craving lips with his soft warm loving ones, pulling away after the number of units of time Tim doesn't know the name of pass, pulling away and giving a fair and pretty accurate assessment of Tim's mental state.

"You're fucking insane," he whispers, the combination of the phonemes new to Tim's ears, the meaning of the utterance still conveyed and understood through the underlying structure.

διαλεκτική, related to dialogue

"I am," Tim answers Ginger, the sentences produced by him enjoying syntax. "You're also not quite alright, you know."

Then Ginger laughs and pushes him in his nuclear reactor and puts his palm he served his dirty meal to him with on Tim's smiling face, Tim pressing into it and addressing the surface it resides on in his conclusive speech.

"Just think of me like that," he says, inferring the final penalty for their shared sins. "You know, next time I call you a pathetic pile of crap and mean it. Just think of me devouring your shit on my knees in front of you. Just think of me like that, okay?"


	23. Daddy issues

  
"Hey, what's that?" John asks, sitting at Tim's computer and browsing stuff, while Tim is walking around the room and picking up dirty socks off the floor. 

"What that?" Tim says, stopping to look at what he's pointing at. "Can't see from here."

"This folder," John says. "K-l-j-i-o-j-g-h-e-f or something."

"Ah," Tim nods, resuming the cleaning process Ginger forced him to perform by himself through giving him puppy eyes and letting him give him head on the balcony in broad daylight. "That's my latest gift for Brian."

"Gift?" John asks, turning to look at him over the shoulder. "Do you mean... What kind of gift?"

Tim chuckles.

"That kind of gift, yeah."

He stands there with a smelly bouquet of cloth in his hands, waiting for John to stop pinning him in place.

"Okay," John says and turns away, clicking on something else.

Tim goes on with picking flowers.

"Can I watch it?" John asks several seconds later, pulling Tim out of his daydream about waltzing on the meadows.

"Oh," Tim says, but without wondering if this shark has a special appeal to gods, because he has no idea where this chat is leading - he's thinking about fucking bluets. "Sure. If you want to."

John chooses to pay visual attention to him once again. 

"Yeah, I do," he says. "Why? What are you sending him? Is it something disgusting?"

 _Nicely played_ , Tim thinks to himself, the warhead in his chest grinning for him. 

"I'm not sending anything unsanctioned to him, if that's what you are asking," Tim says. _If. Ha._ John purses his lips at him. "It's just me watching him jerk off and engaging in wishful acting."

John looks at him with narrow eyes for a few moments.

"Okay," he says. "I wanna watch it."

"Great," Tim says. "Do you mind if I watch it with you? I haven't had the time to review it yet, and Brian said it was a masterpiece."

John nods his assent and Tim abandonds his fetid collection and comes to stand next to him, bending over the chair.

  
Tim promptly reaches a conclusion that Brian's quite a connoisseur when it comes to art.

  
haunted neck - cool

the whiny one is whiny; aiming for success on film?

  
He gets rock hard around the second minute, when Tim on the screen grows tired of sitting there staring at what Tim next to John thinks was a particularly satisfying demonstration of Brian's beating off talent and quits making dumplings out of his lips, smacking and then molding them, trying all sorts of experimental shapes and marking his more fortunate discoveries by cheering that sounds as unseemly as Brian's grunts in the video Tim on the screen is watching. Luckily, Tim next to John and John himself don't hear them or any other noises that Brian was producing, because Tim on the screen watched the video with headphones on. Anyway, Tim on the screen takes off the headphones and gets up and leaves, there is a pause, then he comes back, puts the cock from outer space on the table next to the keyboard and his mouth on it, clicking _play_ on Brian's gift video for him.

Tim on the screen looks obsessed.

Bowie?

Tim next to John adjusts his aching cock inside his pants, watching Tim on the screen stretching his lips around the dildo, pulling at them with his fingers, rubbing the dildo over his tongue, his trap wide open, pushing it further down - Tim next to John feels ghost sensations of contractions going through his stomach - and rubbing it all over his overly excited mug.

Then he stops, putting both his hands on the back of the chair John's sitting in, but Tim on the screen continues.

"Fuck," John says maybe a minute later. "It fucking looks like you're masturbating your mouth."

Tim right next to him tilts his head a bit and chuckles.

"Yeah, it kinda does," he says.

Because it kinda is what he was doing.

They watch together, as Tim on the screen keeps being entertaining, indulging his horny oral cavity, and then, when he finishes, staring intently at the culmination Brian presented to him and shoving the dildo in and out of his trap, bumping into his lips with his fist and panting, when he then drops it, sitting there, looking at the still image of Brian's jerk off show with an open mouth, breathing heavily, when he says _fuck_ and once again touches his lips, wiping saliva off them with his palm, when he reaches for the cigarettes and sticks one between his teeth, lighting it up and leaning on the back of the chair, when Tim's gift for Brian turns into a still image too, Tim next to John straightens up and lights up a cigarette as well.

"Not bad, if you ask me," he says, leaving his post by the chair and going back to collecting socks. "Hope I didn't waste your time either."

John doesn't answer, opening the bottle of soda he was drinking while poking around Tim's computer and taking several big sips.

"Did you jerk off after that?" John asks instead of answering, having overcome the sudden thirst, clicking on the various time stamps in the video, rewinding the footage.

"Nope," Tim says, fishing a tie - a fucking _tie_ \- from under the couch.

"Why not?" John asks, and when, not without struggling, Tim becomes an upright standing person, he sees that John is looking at him over his shoulder again.

Tim shrugs.

"You know," he says, showing his teeth in a wide smile. "Felt like it was something you wouldn't approve of."

John eyes him for some moments and turns away, closing the video.

Tim goes on with crippling his back.

"Do you---" John starts after a few minutes, Tim gradually approaching complete incapacitation.

"Uh? What?"

"Do you really want to... Do you really want to suck him off?"

Tim snorts, putting the plastic bag full of peanut bags on the floor.

"Yeah," he says. "Wasn't that obvious from my stunning performance there?"

John makes a face, gesturing something with his hands, and starts clicking on things again.

"But you haven't, right?" he asks after another pause, startling Tim, who is inspecting empty beer bottles he found in the laundry basket.

"What?" 

"You haven't done anything like that with him?" John clarifies and opens a bag of peanuts Tim found under the laundry basket.

"No," Tim says, smirking and shaking his head. "You told me that I couldn't, so..."

"Hm," John says.

The beer bottles are definitely empty.

"What if..." John starts.

"Uh?"

"What if I said you could?"

Tim really didn't expect this.

Tim really thought all of it was just demonstrating power and authority out of spite and boredom.

Tim's very pleased he was mistaken.

"Oh," he says. "Wow. Okay. Seriously?"

John narrows his eyes at him.

"If I am in the room," John says.

Apparently, it was demonstarting power and authority out of praiseworthy greed and megalomania.

"Oh," Tim says. "Wow. Okay. Seriously?"

John moves his shoulders, chews on some peanuts, smiles his obnoxious, coy and filthy smile.

_Well._

"Well," Tim says. "I'm listening. What are you directives?"

  
"So he's gonna be like what, watching?" Brian asks.

Tim sighs into the phone, shifting, sliding further down the chair, legs spread wide, feet on the armrest.

"For the umpteenth time, yes. He's gonna be in the same room and watching."

Tim hears Brian let out a sigh too.

"What?" he asks. “Where do you see a problem?”

Brian makes a short pause for fucking drama.

"He doesn't like me."

"Yeah, so?"

"That's kind of... tricky. To navigate around. In a threesome."

"It’s not a threesome. And I am very flexible, so..."

Brian snorts, hearing the grin in his voice.

"Okay, you slutty bastard," he says, frustration not yet fully gone from his. "If you say it's all fine, then I guess it's all fine."

"It _is_ all fine," Tim says, shifting again, hauling his own idle body up a bit, putting his head onto the armrest.

Oh, and you are too, aren't you, Tim?

"You know, from where I'm sitting, it looks more like you might need counseling."

Tim laughs out loud. 

Tim needs to fuck off.

"Careful with that sympathy of yours," he says. "Remember, we don't want another whiny album."

the long ass bass thing is cool

"Oh, grow up," Brian retorts.

"Nah, thanks, not really my thing," Tim says. "All that paying taxes and doing your own laundry..."

Brian laughs.

"Anyway," Tim says. "It's not what it looks like. Trust me, I am the asshole there. It's all in the little details underneath, you just have to see past the distractive facade. I'm sure you know a thing or two about that yourself, Daddy."

Brian spits out a dismissive burst of air.

"Asslicker."

Tim smirks, briefly touching his lips.

"Well, with my former sovereign's soft spot for rimming..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean, he is a tyrant," Brian says. "Look. You're an annoying little fuck, but I like you. So just tell me if everything is really fine."

Tim shakes his head, hoping that Brian would get the mental image.

"Everything is really fine," he says. "It's just like that fuck vaudeville with whips and blindfolds you're so fond of. Exactly what you're into. Why are you so... _caring_ all of a sudden?"

"Because I know you well enough to understand _you_ aren't into that."

Tim exhales slowly, rubbing at his lips.

"Hm," he says. "Yeah, okay, maybe. But there is no need for counseling. It's kinda like when you start donating money for the... Save The Pandas charity because your sweetheart is spiritual and a vegan. When you go to a modern art exhibition with pieces that threaten to dislocate your jaw because your darling thinks it is important to keep up with the innovative thought. Come on, you know the deal."

W Temple st, 27th, monotheism bullshit, pick squid up

"Yeah, maybe I do. You, on the other hand..."

"God, you're a mother hen. I'm fucking fine. And even if I weren't, would that really fucking stop you?"

"Of course it wo---"

"Pfff."

Tim looks at the mental image of Brian chewing on his lips.

"Hm," Brian says after a bit. "Maybe not."

"Definitely not."

"Hm. Well..."

"Uh-huh," Tim says and shifts one more time, trying to grab the cigarettes off the table. "Would make a nice single, right?"

"Fuck off."

"Soon," Tim says, lighting up a smoke. "Anyway. It all boils down to one simple question: do you wanna fuck me or not?"

"Sure I do. But didn't you say there wouldn't be any fucking?"

"Yeah, not this time, I don't think so," Tim says, taking a drag. "But we'll probably do something better than just sending each other jerk off videos. And you'll call me a slut and so on. And come. I guarantee you'll come."

"And you?" 

"Oh, I guarantee I won't," Tim chuckles. "That's the whole point."

"Fuck," Brian snorts out. "And him?"

"I've already told you. He'll be in the room with us and he will watch."

"And tell you what to do."

"Uh-huh."

Tim listens to Brian exhaling a raspy breath and getting up, then to a cupboard being open, the clinking of the glass being placed on the table.

"Okay," Brian says a few seconds later. "Fuck it. If I get to have actual fun, then we have a deal."

Tim laughs, delighted.

"I'm delighted."

"I can hear that," Brian says, brings the glass to his lips and drinks whatever it is he's drinking. "And what about Ginger?"

Tuesday 1217 wilshire shit test

Tim grins and sits up.

"Daddy," he says, tone that of a reprimand. "All in good time."

"Oh, fuck you, Tim. I just meant---"

"I know what you meant," Tim says. "Sorry. Couldn't resist." Brian pshaws at him on the other end of the line. "He's gonna be at that book club or something that I don't give a flying fuck about even though we live together and wear each other's clothes like the most cheesy romantic couple of the year."

Brian laughs and finishes his drink.

"See? I am perfectly fine," Tim says.

"Seems so," Brian says. "Okay then. Not a threesome it is."

  
Tim lands on the couch next to Brian, beaming and grabbing at the remote control, and Brian turns to him, studying his still somewhat red face and then his still very much erect cock, clearly visible through his jeans.

"Hm," he says. "He hasn't let you come."

"Nope," Tim smirks and spreads his legs even wider. "Told you."

  
It starts really awkward, once they skip the part where Tim greets Brian at the doorstep and lets him in, which goes just alright.

It starts that awkward that if Tim were to rate what he made of John's transsexual birthday party as a solid nine out of ten, which he would, because it was, then this would be a thirteen at least, and he's organized enough unprompted threesomes in his life to know what he's talking about.

It starts with Brian greeting John, once he is in the room, and continues with John giving him no response.

Well, he looks at him, but that's it.

Brian looks at Tim, raising an eyebrow.

Tim shrugs.

Tim promised to _behave._

  
The short stroll to the bedroom is also far from sexy and relaxing, but mostly uneventful. 

When they get there, Tim is put on his knees next to the bed John then sits on, tying his hands behind his back.

A few moments later Brian informs Tim he isn't hard.

John has just told them they can start, and Tim is standing on his knees and Brian's towering above him and they are fully clothed and Brian isn't hard and he tells him so and adds that nothing here is particularly arousing, and it isn't, but Tim's more lenient than that.

Of course he is.

"He isn't hard," Tim says, throwing his head back and glancing at John upside down. 

"Well, I am sure he knows how to change that," John hisses out.

"Hm," Tim says, now glancing up at Brian. "Okay." Brian watches him expectantly. "Daddy, feel free to pull that cock of yours I dream about out of your pants and pump it hard. I'm gonna help you." Brian frowns. Tim throws his head back again. "I can help him, right?" John fucking waits for something from him too. "By talking," he then adds, and John nods.

Thank gods.

Brian puffs out some air and pulls his cock out.

_Thank gods._

Tim opens his mouth, licks at the lower teeth and lip. As a preamble.

"You know what I like the most about sucking cocks?" he asks, starting the speech. "Well, apart from just the taste." He nods at Brian's sluggish cock, resting between his fingers. "I bet yours tastes great. Like... a bit stale? I mean it in the nicest way, so take that as a compliment. It's like, basically," he pauses for a second, licks his lips again, showing the movements of his tongue, "there're two types of cock, but with varying degree of characteristic flavor. A choir boy's cock and a sweaty hobo's cock. And you," he looks up at Brian, "despite your deeply religious past, are a rock star.” He smiles at him, licks his lips. “So I bet it would sting just a bit if you slid it in right now. A touch of bitter for my tongue. I’d fucking love that.”

He checks on Brian's cock again, sticking out his tongue, moving it in circles.

Somebody says _fuck._

"But that's just meat and potatoes," Tim continues, turning his racy gaze upwards again. "Like come. It's almost a given. If you're gonna suck a cock, most likely you'll be swallowing some junk. Or spitting, but I obviously swallow." He smiles a charming smile. "But that's like two plus two. Not to say that I don't like it, cause I do. I love a load down my throat as much as the next man."

John's hand holding him by his hair tightens up.

 _I wonder when it got there_ , Tim thinks, chuckling with his inner nuclear device.

"Especially if I actually get to keep it in my mouth first," he goes on. "And if there is enough of it to like really _swallow_." He touches his teeth with his tongue, leaning into John's hand pulling at his hair, opening his mouth several times, looking up at Brian and at his not so idle cock. "I sucked two dudes in a club last week," he says. "You know, like, together. They were pals. One was bi, another said he was curious." He smirks a bit. He smirked and said _pleasure doing business with you guys_ , when they were done, and then they danced. "So I just had to do them a favor." _John_ says _fuck_. "And it was perfect," Tim continues, dragging the vowels. "What's really cool about sucking two cocks at once is that you get to swallow two loads. And usually one right after another too. Like you've just managed to gulp down Billy's junk, it might be even still running down your chin, cause there was a lot of it, and then it's Jimmy's cock watering your tongue, cause he's just pulled you off Billy's like you're a fuckdoll and shoved your sloppy face onto his own."

"Fuck," Brian says, pumping his cock hard, John's fingers pulling Tim's scalp off his skull.

 _I wonder what their problem is_ , Tim thinks, his inner warhead grinning.

"Well, not _you_ , Daddy," he adds, letting Brian gawk at him from above as if he is the head of the Spanish inquisition and Tim's an audacious libertine and yeah, that's a very specific phantasy, but he himself is a very distinctive creature. "Me. I love sucking cocks. I'm nuts about knocking off two monkeys in one go. But don't you think about the monkeys. You'll get me in trouble."

"Fuck, you slutty fucking bastard, " Brian says, looking like he might punch him.

Wouldn't that be awesome.

John's angry, searing hand holding him in place feels like being punched is his inevitable future.

He can't wait for it to arrive.

"Anyway," he says. "As much as I love junk, that's not my favorite part of being a cocksucker." He is so, so getting punched. "The baton itself is the main dish here." He looks at Brian's long polished rod, licking his lips. Very, very thoroughly. "And yours is a fucking magic wand, Daddy." The _magic wand_ jumps in Brian's hand and Brian curses. Apparently, Tim is an asshole. "You know what I'd love the most if you shoved it in my mouth?" He might even be getting throttled. "How it would pull on my motherfucking lips. Down here, at the corners." He demonstrates the area he's describing, as well as everything else inside his chatty yap. "I mean, yours is not the biggest one I've had, but I'm pretty sure it would fuck me up. You would fuck me up with your awesome cock, wouldn't you, Daddy?"

Brian growls, but Tim still hears the sizzling sound of John's lava pouring into his ears.

 _Manslaughter_ , Tim thinks. 

_Second degree murder_ , Tim thinks.

 _Maybe first, if the persecutor's scrupulous_ , Tim thinks.

"I'd love it if you fucked my face, Daddy," Tim says, more than ready for the blow. "Just pounded my aperture as if it was a jerk off sleeve. Fucked me so hard your balls bruised my lips. Screw me all the way down to my throat."

"Fucking whore," Brian spits out. "Fucking, fucking, fucking whore."

"Oh yeah," Tim says, trying to nod, but failing, because John's hands are a scorching fucking vice. "I mean, I actually would fucking vomit all over myself and cough my lungs out afterwards, because I'm shit at deepthroating, but. I'd fucking let you anyway. I'd beg you to. I'd beg for cock."

"You horny trash," John's lava boils in his ears. "Ask him to slap you."

_Oh._

_Wow._

_Seriously?_

Tim tries to turn his head and look at John.

"Fucking ask him to slap you," John says, pushing his head forward.

_Oh._

_Wow._

_Wow._

"Daddy, please, slap me, " Tim says, conveying John's message like Brian hasn't already fucking heard it himself. "Slap my impudent snout."

"Fuck," Brian says, swallowing hard, voice raspy. "Yeah?"

"Hell yeah," Tim says, opening his mouth.

He's about to close it to add _or should I beg for it_ when Brian slaps him.

_Wow._

Why the fuck does he even keep stuff in _folders_. He should store those gifts he sends as posters on the walls.

"Thanks," he grits out, smiling.

John's seething.

"Ask him to come closer," he says, all sounds sharp and cutting. "Ask him to jerk off onto your fucking face."

"Daddy," Tim says, because he just can't stop pushing it. "Please, approach. My mug will be the dumpster for your junk."

"Oh, fuck," Brian says, taking a step forward, Tim's face now right under his cock he keeps pumping just like Tim invited him to do. "Fuck you, you dirty cunt."

Brian's _having fun._

"Want you to drown me in your rock star jizz," Tim says, licking his lips and looking at Brian's cock. 

Brian's looking at his face.

"You know what I also love about face fucking?" Tim asks casually, meeting Brian's eyes for a second.

 _John_ 's spitting in his face while throwing spadefuls of soil on him.

"I love how... _soft_ it gets after I've been used," Tim says. "I mean, this whole friendly grotto I love having whacked."

_Used._

And whacked.

He breaks the eye contact and starts staring at Brian's cock again.

"Especially if it's not only cock, but also slapping," he continues. "Swelling does fucking wonders for my lips. I just feel like a... Like a ragged. Dirty. Worn-out. _Fuckhole_." 

"Fuck," Brian says. "Goddamn it, Tim."

So much fun.

"Yeah," Tim says. "Love it. It's even better if there were two cocks to screw me. Or three." He smiles, nasty. "Or four."

"Fucking---" Brian snarls. "Slut. Fucking Swedish slut. How many cocks have you fucking sucked?"

Tim grins, feeling John's fingers digging into his skull.

 _More than seventeen_ , he thinks.

"A lot," he says. "Two just last week." He licks his lips. "Well, four, but, you know... Don't think about that."

 _Ten more years for defiling the corpse_ , Tim thinks.

"That would be like, how many? Around ninety six a year?" he goes on. "And I've been at it for thirty years, give or take. So do the maths."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brian says. "You---"

"I might be slightly off, yeah," Tim says. "I mean, I don't suck two new cocks _every_ week. I like returning to those I have already had a taste of too. So it's more like two a month. And I also take fresh cocks up the ass, of course, so..."

"Fuck, shit, fuck," Brian says, shaking. "You whore."

"So like... four hundred?" Tim offers, looking up at him. "Maybe five. I'm really not sure."

"Shut up," John says, low, menacing, and grabs his chin, pulling his mouth open. "Shut up, you garbage."

Tim grumbles, though not in protest, and opens his mouth even wider, sticking his tongue out and drooling, Brian's cock getting pumped within centimeteres from his face.

"Ask him to come all over you," John says, hissing in his ear. 

Tim moans, unfastening his trap entirely, showing Brian his soft fucking palate.

Brian doesn't really need him to form sentences.

Brian looks like he's about to collapse on both of them, Brian pants as if it isn't Tim who has been singing, Brian beats off and looks at Tim and looks if not obsessed, then at the very least engrossed, Brian comes all over him one hundred percent on his own.

Tim, no doubt, looks if not yet haunted, but possessed.

Tim groans like a madman, when Brian's junk lands on his lips and tongue and stains his face.

Tim licks it up like a fetishistic lunatic.

Tim is _fine._

  
“Jesus fuck,” Brian says, taking a step back and swaying, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “You crazy motherfucking bastard.” Tim grins, Brian staring at his bared come covered teeth with wide eyes. “Fuck. _Fuck._ I need to sit down right fucking now. You outrageous whore. Shit. Fuck. _Fuck_." He takes a few more steps back. "I’ll be in another room.” 

  
Tim spreads his legs wider and switches the channel.

"Did he smack you?" Brian asks, glancing at his beaming face.

"Oh yeah," Tim nods, touching his beaten lips. "And kicked me in the nuts."

  
John gets up.

"You never fucking listen, do you?" John asks.

John's towering above him, looking at him licking Brian's come off his lips. 

John says _fuck_ and leaves him standing on his knees for some seconds.

John shoves a handful of cloth in his face.

  
John throws it away.

" _Oh, don't you worry, I will be good, I swear_ ," John says, citing his own words at him, towering above him. "Fuck you."

Tim licks his lips and smiles an obnoxiously shy smile at him.

"Sorry," he says. "I just wanted to give you an excuse to punch me, you know."

"Fuck you," John says, clenching his fists. "I don't need fucking excuses to punch you. I can do it any time I want."

_Wow._

"Hm," Tim says, tilting his head and smiling once again, now genuinely. "Yeah, that _is_ true." He licks his lips. "Well." He throws his head further back, giving John better access. "If you please."

  
John smacks him.

  
"Fuck," Tim spits out, panting, when John stops slapping him, rubbing at his hand and panting too. "Fuck, John."

John can punch him any time he wants to, and today, it seems, he really fucking does.

His whole face is burning.

He feels like he might come in his fucking pants.

  
John shoves his shoe between his legs.

Tim jerks his hips, pressing into it with his stiff cock.

"Fuck," John says. "Disgusting piece of trash."

  
Then he kicks him.

  
"Oh, fuck," Tim grunts out, bending over, breathless. "John. Fuck, John."

  
John kicks him again.

  
Then - Tim's still writhing there on the floor in acute misery - John grabs him by his hair, making him look up.

Tim looks up.

Tim opens his mouth as wide as he can.

Tim waits.

  
Tim doesn't need to form sentences to say that he's in love.

  
John looks as if he's going to bury him under the deadfall of his vibrating, incandescent, pitch black body, John pants, as if it isn't Tim who's so going to be throttled one of those days, John jerks off, his fiery, pissed off hand in mere centimeters from Tim's haunted snout, his cock almost touching Tim's stretched, beaten lips, Tim moaning nonstop, without pausing, John's fingers entangled in his hair, holding him in place he has zero plans for leaving, John comes in his expectant, uproarious, overly excited toothy trap, effervescing, submerging him in boiling lava, inundating him.

"Fucking swallow," John says, shaking, looking at Tim standing there on his knees covered in his junk, holding his mouth open for him to see the filthy insides.

Tim lets the come trickle down his throat, giving a few shudders, his pathetic gag reflex triggered, Tim swallows John without closing his mouth, Tim licks him off his lips and teeth, letting out low howls, staring up at him.

"Thank you," Tim says, showing John his now empty mouth.

"Fuck," John says, pushing his head away and sitting down on the bed, dense and heavy like a rock, but still so graceful. "Fuck you, Tim."

Tim slumps down, shifting, putting his head on the mattress right next to his thigh and smiling dreamily at him.

"Thank you," he says again.

  
He kisses John's hand when John offers it to him a few moments later.

  
"Done?" Tim asks, taking the plate from John, two slices of cake he brought him from the kitchen cleaned off it within one minute. "Want anything else?" John shakes his head and falls onto the pillow, pulling the blankets up. "You gonna sleep now?"

"Yeah," John says, blinking, voice whiny. "Maybe play later. Is my guitar here?"

"Right there," Tim says, pointing at the chair by the window. "Ready and waiting for you."

"Okay," John says, closing his eyes. 

Tim kisses his forehead, John wrinkling his nose at the touch, and gets up.

"I'll go entertain my guest, alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," John mutters. "Just don't---"

"I won't," Tim chuckles. "I am a different type of asshole."

  
Tim crashlands on the couch, grabbing at the remote control and switching the news channel Brian has been watching to a soap opera.

He slides down, spreading his legs wide.

"Hm," Brian says, turning his head to look at him, first at his face, then at his cock. "He hasn't let you come."

"Nope," Tim says, smiling. "Told you."

"Did he smack you?" Brian asks, glancing at his face again.

 _Like you didn't hear_ , Tim thinks. The door wasn't exactly closed.

"Oh yeah," he nods. "And kicked me in the nuts."

"Fuck," Brian says. "Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

Brian shifts a little on the couch.

"And you liked it?"

"Fuck, yes," Tim says.

Tim drags his fingernail over his bulging crotch, digging it in, and hisses, jerking up his hips.

Brian has always insisted he should sign more autographs.

Brian shakes his head.

"Masochistic pervert," he says.

"Uh-huh," Tim says, swtiching the soap opera to a game of baseball. "Did _you_ like it?"

Brian laughs.

"Are you kidding me?" he asks and takes a sip of something he helped himself to while Tim's nuts were being kicked. "I've been dreaming of coming on your smug face since forever."

Tim chuckles too.

"Glad to have been of assistance," he says. "Pour me some too, will you? My yap's a salt flat."

Tim gulps down Ginger's bullshit non-alcoholic beer Brian's been drinking fuck knows why. Tim lights up a cigarette.

Brian switches the game of baseball to a Civil War documentary.

They look at horses.

"Communication part was a bit weird, though," Brian says.

"Hm," Tim says, checking out the fly of some Confederate general. Brian switches the channel again. "Well, what can I say. You are a rude dickhead, so..."

"You're also a rude dickhead," Brian objects, checking out the tits of some retro variety dancer.

"Right, and see how I'm being treated," Tim says, pointing at his still aching cock.

Brian snorts and takes a sip of Ginger's liquid bullshit.

"Told you it would be tricky."

"Nah," Tim says, taking a drag. "Relax. A few more exercises like one we did today and he'll relent."

"Yeah?" Brian asks, trying to wave the smoke away.

"Yeah," Tim says, switching the channel. "And we will have a get-together. It's gonna be like good old days. Provided you have enough hair dye."

"Fuck off," Brian laughs, elbowing him.

They look at the fleece monstrosity with sleeves they have apparently always wanted.

"Hey," Brian says a bit later, when it is already a multifunctional, exclusive and very reasonably priced all-in-one gym system that's being advertized to them. "That thing you said about deepthroating."

"Yeah?" 

"Is that true?"

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks. _How come it's not my tale of five hundred cocks you're questioning._

"Yeah," Tim says. "My gag reflex sucks. Come on, you've seen me vomit because I fucking sneezed. And now you expect me to be the new Linda Lovelace?"

"Well, seeing that you've sucked five hundred cocks..."

Tim laughs, puffing out the smoke.

"Have you?"

"Donno," Tim shrugs. "Maybe. Probably. Most likely. I don't count, you know. It's not about the fucking number. Or about reaching all the way down to my larynx."

"Yeah? What is it about then?"

361 x 19

"Well, I've already told you, haven't I?" Tim says. "It's about having a unique experience with agreeable people. Just like with this amazing fruit slicer that will change your life."

He nods at the TV.

"Oh, fucking turn it off already," Brian says, pulling the remote control out of his hands.

They look at some ladies in lacy stockings and silky gloves having a pillow fight to one hundred thirty beats per minute.

Tim chuckles.

"Anyway," he says, letting Brian admire the undergarments. "I can't deepthroat."

"That must upset you."

"It sure does," Tim nods, putting out his cigarette. "So I still try like a stubborn bastard that I am."

Brian smirks.

"Remember that time when you vomited because a moth flew into your nose?"

Tim laughs.

"God, fuck off," he says, shaking his head. "I love you bringing up my past humiliation, but like, do be careful. I might come in my fucking pants."

"And you are not allowed."

"Uh-huh."

Brian hums and takes a few more sips of Ginger's offensive beverage Tim will eliminate the whole supply of first thing tomorrow.

They look at a soaking wet lady in a leather costume chilling out next to a swimming pool.

"I can, by the way," Brian says.

"Uh? What?"

"Deepthroat."

Tim coughs his lungs out.

"Jesus, dude," he says, wiping his mouth. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Wow," Tim eyes Brian head to toe. "And how---"

6859

"Zero."

"Huh?"

"Zero."

"That does---"

"There is no need to be a cockslut like you to know how to do it."

"Well..."

"There is even no need for a real cock to be present."

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"Yeah."

"Oh," Tim says. "Okay. Point taken. I'm humbled." He finishes his glass of bland piss. "I guess I'll remain the only true harlot in here."

"Oh, yeah," Brian says, nodding like the guy who'd burn him for his transgressions, and switches the channel.

They look at a chatty jock molesting a sports car.

"So..." Tim starts after a few more minutes.

"Yeah?" Brian turns his face to him.

"How about you coach me and I tape my whole learning process for you?" Tim offers, shifting too, propping his head on one elbow. "I wanna finally be cured of this pathetic curse."

Brian laughs.

"Alright," he says. "So I think first of all you should get something less rigid than what you were vacuuming the last time..."

  
When they have their second not exactly threesome and not really a get-together there is still no real communication.

Of course, Tim talks to Brian, because Brian arrives first and they hang out on the couch, discussing politics like that is sexy, but then John gets to Tim's place too, and it is awkward silence once again.

Tim even develops this compulsive feeling to just start undressing right in the middle of the room, making dance moves.

In the end he evades such fate, because after their short, stern and solemn walk to the bedroom John tells him to undress himself.

"Wow," Brian says, eyeing him from head to toe, disturbing the peace and quiet.

It's not like he hasn't seen him naked, he fucking has, they did use to live on top of each other's heads and Tim is not exactly prudish, but context is important, and he hasn't seen him naked in _this_ way.

Nor has he seen anything like what happens next, because next John puts the cock cage he brought from home on Tim's moderately interested cock.

"Wow," Brian says again, and Tim offers him a coquettish shark smile.

"I guess I'm not entitled to any benefits today," he says, John putting the key in his pocket.

"Shut up," John says, pushing him down, onto the floor. "And tell him to sit down."

"Brian, please, have a seat," Tim says, gesturing at the armchair and kneeling, following John's manual petition. "The curtains are about to be open."

"Shut up," John says again, shoving the lubed dildo in his hand, Brian sitting down, looking somewhat confused. "Get it in. Show him how you take it up your ass."

_Oh._

_Okay._

The cock cage was not the only thing John brought from home.

The cock cage and Ginger's severed tentacle.

And lube.

It's like John always has lube on him.

  
"Fuck. Me. Up," Tim grits out, pushing himself down on the dildo, throwing his head back.

John didn't tell him to stretch himself, so he didn't bother. It's just a matter of holding it firmly enough and going down slowly.

"Fuck," Brian says, staring at him in shock, when Tim abandons the carefull process of gradually impaling himself on the dildo without any preparation and gets it in in one motion, snarling at the pain and smiling uncontrollably. " _Fuck._ "

Then Brian looks at John.

John is sitting on the bed right behind Tim, his left leg almost touching Tim's left arm. Tim breathes in and out for a moment, puts both his arms behind him, offering them to John, his shoulders pulled backwards.

John holds him.

Tim starts moving.

He doesn't fight his compulsive feeling when it comes to him. He moans, taking in the dildo, and starts the monologue.

"Daddy," he says, rocking his hips, and wets his lips with a quick sweep of tongue. "You know, I'm such an ass slut for you."

As if that wasn't obvious.

"I want to ride you till I pass out," he goes on. "And fuck the lube. Just some spit on your cock, and you can pull me on. I'd fucking take it. Gladly."

John's holding him, and Brian looks at John.

"I do take a lot of cocks," Tim continues, looking at the ceiling. "And not only cocks, as you've probably figured out already. I'm a huge ass slut in general."

He licks his lips, letting out a moan.

He missed that dildo deeply.

"And yours," he says, sounding rhapsodic, voice breathy. "Yours is a thing of beauty."

Brian looks at John, then looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

Tim would've shrugged, but John is holding him.

"Shit," he says, finding a really good angle, screwing the bolt into his hole to the very root, his mouth falling open, tongue touching the teeth.

"Fuck," Brian says. "You---"

Tim smiles at him.

"I mean, I know this... little monkey with a drinking problem and a drum kit," he starts again, cutting Brian short. "You know him really well too. And his cock..." He pauses, spreading his knees wider, gyrating his hips. "Fuck, Daddy, let me tell you, I've never tried anything quite like it. And I've tried _a lot_ of cocks."

Shit, or is it twenty now?

Brian looks at John, then at Tim again, and Tim manages to shrug, urging him on, John's hands hot and restrictive on his arms.

"Fuck," Brian says, shaking his head, and puts his hand on his bulging crotch. "Okay."

Brian knows how to have fun.

"Like that five hundreds number I've given you..." Tim goes on. "It might seem... unrealistic. Like I am exaggerating. I do have that tendency." 

He moans again and tries to cool his head.

He has a tendency of orgasming on motherfucking tentacles as well.

"But if you think of it," he says, mouth dry. "If you really think of it. Of what you know of me. Of what you've seen me do."

He drops his head down, focusing his blurry vision on Brian's cock Brian pulled out while he was speaking.

That isn't helping, but.

It's a cock.

Of course he's looking at it.

Brian's observing John. Then him. 

Tim winks at him.

"You should understand it's probably at least as many as I said," Tim says, going back to admiring Brian's beating off talent. "So I say that as an expert in the field: that monkey's cock is the best cock ever."

That isn't helping either.

 _That monkey's cock_ , he thinks to himself, _will make you come right now not even being present here._

_And you can't._

"Will you shut up?" John hisses, bending, making ashes out of his ear. "I didn't allow you to fucking talk. Just fuck yourself for him. Isn't that all you want? Just fuck yourself, you piece of trash."

Tim almost laughs out loud, hearing that.

 _Just fuck yourself_ , he thinks.

That is exactly.

_Exactly._

What he is doing.

He licks his lips, swallowing hard. The leaves and blood and the ghost sensations of dry come on his tongue.

"But that's..." he says, glancing at Brian's face, seeing him panting, a bit red and dishevelled, looking at John and then at him. "That's a whole different story."

He won't shut up.

"What I need to tell you, Daddy," he pushes forward, switching to beholding Brian's manual work again. "Is how I feel about _your_ cock."

"Fuck," John mutters, sounding like pure anger.

"It's very special to me," Tim says, swallowing it down too. "I didn't think I'd ever see it. And I never really wanted to. I mean, come on," he pulls off a smirk. "You're so clearly not my type."

Brian's now looking directly at him, eyes wide, facial expression so telling it is fucking chatty.

_Blink twice if you're in trouble, is it?_

Tim grins, showing his teeth to him.

"But, Daddy," Tim says, slipping into a moan at the fucking honorific. "That's nothing. A trifling matter in the grand scheme of things." 

Trifling.

Jesus.

That almost takes all the strength he's gathered. 

He moves his hips, grinding down on the dildo, trying to focus on something else.

It isn't helping, but he can't exactly stop.

"Fucking hell," Brian says.

Tim smiles with a corner of his mouth, licks his lips.

Brian's come _was_ a bit bitter.

"What is important," Tim says, forcing himself down on the tentacle that's going to be the end of him, forcing himself to speak. "Is that I'd fucking kill to ride you, Daddy. I'd fucking die myself while I'm at it, if I could."

Shit.

"Shit," Brian says.

Tim tries to turn his head and look at John over his shoulder.

"Who told you you could stop?" John says, grabbing his shoulder, pinning him in place. "Move. And shut. Your. Filthy. Mouth."

Wow.

"Wow," Brian says.

Tim laughs, sounding a bit hysterical, and resumes fucking himself _for him._

"You know what I want, Daddy?" he asks, head now hanging low, the bouncing image of his own caged cock floating before his eyes. "I want you to fuck me so hard you rip me in half. I want you to tear me apart, Daddy."

"Fucking---" John says, voice tense.

"I want you to defile me," Tim says, feeling his arms John's holding going numb. "I mean, it might not sound like much, seeing that I'm such a pervert." He throws his head backwards again, looking at the empty ceiling to avoid temptation. "I do jerk off about so much crazy shit." Like that long dead chauvinistic moustached general he did imagine giving head to after throwing away all Ginger's fake beer. "Like that Spanish inquisition thing I will one day finally tell you everything about." 

When he decides to check on Brian like a good host would do, he sees that Brian has pressed a hand over his mouth.

And that he's about to lose it in three seconds, but that's not much of a surprise.

Brian's eyes dart above Tim's spinning head for a moment.

Tim pulls on a face he hopes is eloquent enough.

 _Come on_ , he thinks.

 _Just fuck it_ , he thinks.

 _Have fun_ , he thinks.

 _That's why you are here_ , he thinks.

"Shit," Brian says, panting, shaking, his fist moving fast. Apparently, it's not only Tim himself who's into staring at his laughable caged cock. Though the bastard would, of course, maintain it's only Tim's hurting, overly stretched and squelching hole that he gives a damn about. "You fucking nutjob."

John's fiery hand finds his hair, pulling hard.

"But it is what my fucking hollow of hell desires, Daddy," Tim says, leaning into the cruel touch. "I want you to defile me. To abuse me. To destroy me with your cock." Which is a mistake, because he's also gonna lose it in three seconds, and he _can't_. "I want you to just bend me next to a dumpster where I belong and fuck me without asking. I want you to use me like a one-off glove and throw me away."

"F-fuck," John says behind him, his voice echoing in Tim's scalped skull.

"I want you to do what you please with me," Tim says, desperately trying not to implode right there. "I want to be your personal fuckhole, Daddy."

  
And that, that does it.

For Brian.

  
"Fuck," Brian says, getting up, voice raspy, tense, black with arousal. "Fuck it."

  
Brian takes several quick steps towards Tim kneeling there next to the bed between John's legs, head pulled up by John's infuriated hand, mouth open, blood running out of it.

Brian urgently works his cock right above Tim's face.

  
Then Tim gets to swallow Brian's new release.

  
Well, some of it, because nobody's there careful and also because Brian seems to have a kink.

  
Tim sneers, licking Brian's bitter, seasoned rock star junk off his lips again, shaking on Ginger's severed tentacle lodged deep inside his ass, a millisecond from his own orgasm, at last just sitting there without any premeditated motion.

"Fuck, I'm---" Brian starts, retreating just a little, looking first at John and then at Tim, both feet and voice unsteady.

"Tell him," John starts, creeping even closer to Tim's pulsing, fucked up shark skull. "To fuck off. From here. Now."

"Thanks," Tim says, smiling wide at Brian. "And fucking relax. Go have a drink. Enjoy yourself. I'll be with you shortly. Just one more tiny thing to wrap up in here and I'll be there."

  
When John looks at his come covered face again, towering above him, Tim understands what it was that Brian couldn't take his fucking eyes off.

He smiles wide at John as well.

"Fucking shit," John says and shakes, extreme disgust twisting his features. "You _are_ just a fucking cockslut."

  
John never listens.

Agoraea

Aricina

Aristobule

Angelos

Apanchomene (Jesus fucking Christ)

Agrotera

Caryatis

Daduchos

Enodia

Wait, what?

the Lady of the _Nut_ -Tree?

Fuck

Limnaeus

Artemis Tauropolos

  
Tim smiles, licks his lips, closes his eyes.

Tim hauls his desecrated ruins of a body onto the bed, hooks his arms under his knees, pushes out the dildo, not forgetting to articulate his profound feelings for it while he's doing that.

He didn't think John could hate him even more, but that... _gesture_ does it.

"Please," he slurs out. "Give me your worst."

  
When in a few seconds exactly that happens, John fucking him on his back, staring right at his soiled face, repulsion rooted as deep in him as he himself is in Tim, Tim keeps talking, saying just one thing, and John keeps telling him to shut his mouth.

And that he'd better not dare come, but that is no surprise.

"Oh, fuck, John," Tim says, feeling like he's being put on a pike, but with the speed of light and repeatedly. "John. John. _John._ "

"Shut up," John says, pounding into him, looking like he's going to vomit. "Shut your garbage mouth."

  
John never, never, _never_ listens.

  
But - John comes in his defiled, abused, positively destroyed ass.

  
But - first John grabs Tim's shirt off the bed and shoves it in Tim's already breathless, stuttering face and smothers him, his hand pressing over his garbage mouth.

  
But - Tim licks his palm through the cloth.

  
John never listens, but Tim doesn't really need to form sentences or even syllables.

John still shoots right through him.

  
When Tim is also generously invited to fuck off from here now, letting John digest the cake and sleep and then maybe play his or maybe Tim's guitar he also wants waiting for him in the chair, Tim goes to the living room to entertain his dear guest just like he promised.

"You're crazy," Brian says, helping himself to Tim's very real beer, looking at Tim taking his position on the couch as gently as he would be pulling that fucking moth out of his nose if that moth was for some reason also dear to him.

Tim still fails, Tim says _fuck_ and _shit_ and _fucking ass_ , falling on the couch like a log a sports car punched a hole through.

"Give me that," he says then, grabbing at the bottle.

Brian gives him another one.

Squeamish bastard.

"You're absolutely mad," Brian says, watching him drink.

"What, can't wait to suggest that counseling of yours again?" Tim says, leaning back in an offensively cautious manner. His ass _hurts_. "Don't you get it? I'm just in love."

Brian puffs out a snide exhale.

"Oh, I get it," he says. "I know a thing or two about that too. He, on the other hand---"

"He's a guitar player," Tim says, pulling a cigarette out of the package, tone dismissive. "You know how we are. Be thankful he can tell his fingers from his ass."

Brian chuckles softly, shaking his head.

"You are crazy," he says again.

"Uh-huh," Tim says, taking the first drag and sliding down, fumes cruising through his respiratory system. "But I am _fine._ "

Brian glances at him sideways, evaluating the claim and his stiff and aching state, and takes a swig.

"You seem to have had fun as well," Tim adds, smiling a nasty smile.

"Fuck off," Brian says. "I know what you're doing."

Tim shifts a bit, puts his hands under his head.

"Okay," he easily agrees. "But you _did_ like it, didn't you? You won't write critical reviews saying that I'm a poor mistress of the estate?"

"Jesus," Brian laughs. "Of course, I did. Have you fucking seen yourself?" He has. Brian turns his head to him. "Of course, you have. Degenerate." Tim smirks. "Anyway, I did. The memory of you taking it up your mental ass will serve as a lock of hair in my heart-shaped pendant." Tim pshaws at him. "Though, I must say, I didn't exactly expect this..."

"Well, sorry," Tim says. "Got carried away. By the way, I would've totally done all that I said there for you too. Were it in my power." He brings the cigarette to his lips. "I'm gonna make it up for my neglect to you one day, okay? " 

"Oh, shut up," Brian says. "There was no neglect. If _you_ are fine, then I am most definitely fine."

"You shat your pants a bit at the end," Tim objects half-heartedly.

"I'm still shitting them, dude," Brian says. "You said it was gonna be alright soon. This didn't look alright to me."

"It is alright," Tim says. "He's scary, but not that scary. That shit'll subside."

"Or, which is more likely, he'll just kill you with a spade," Brian retorts.

Tim chuckles.

"Hm," he says, shrugging, even though he fucking shouldn't. His ass _hurts_. "Well, then you'll just fuck my pretty corpse, won't you?"

Brian pushes him.

"F-fuck!" Tim yelps. "Fucker."

Brian laughs.

"You like that sort of thing."

Tim snorts, then takes a drag.

"And you like _this_ sort of thing," he says, puffing out the smoke. "And it'll be okay. Probably." Brian raises an eyebrow. " _You_ will be okay. Promise. All you will get out of this is orgasms and fun."

"Hm," Brian hums, pursing his lips.

Tim finishes his cigarette, lights up another one.

They drink beer.

"Hey," Brian starts again.

"Uh?"

"Can I ask something... personal?"

"Sure, shoot," Tim says. "I guess it's time for me to finally reciprocate and share some of my romantic chagrins with you."

Brian waves his hand at him and at the smoke.

"I just wanna---" he speaks after a brief pause.

"Yeah?"

"Like, how on Earth did you get together?" Brian asks. "He doesn't even _like_ you."

"I don't like him either, so..."

"Dude," Brian says. "That argument is self-defeating and you know that."

Tim laughs, coughs a little, takes a drag.

"Okay, yeah," he says. "You're right. So what do you wanna hear? The whole hidden underlying ugly truth or just a bed time story?"

"The latter, please," Brian says, taking a swig from the bottle. "I've suffered enough emotional turmoil today."

Tim shifts on the couch, pulls his left leg up, his head resting on his palm now, fingers scraping his nape.

"Alright," he says. "So if you just want to know the plot, then..." He pauses, composing a short summary. "I gave him a birthday present he'd been pestering his parents to buy for him for like four years."

Brian shakes his head.

"Don't be so cryptic," he says. "I can take it."

Tim puffs out the smoke at him.

"Alright," he says again. "That thing with Ginger that he has..."

"Yeah?"

"I kickstarted it."

"What?" Brian asks, skeptical.

"Uh-huh," Tim says. "I did."

Brian frowns.

"How?" he asks. "Like... What do you even mean? Weren't they---"

"Nuh-uh," Tim says. "They weren't. I made it happen."

"Wow." _Oh yeah_ , Tim thinks. "How?"

Tim smirks.

"Remember John's birthday party that we threw for him at an obnoxiously posh hotel with butlers?"

"Not really," Brian says.

Tim smirks again.

"Thought so," he says. It's him who became a nuclear catastrophe that day, not Brian. "Anyway, we threw a birthday party for John in an overdecorated hotel room. Pogo and Ginj bought pissbeer and a cake with tits for him, and you fucked off to snort cocaine, and I would've done the same, but by that time I had already had a taste of Ginger's cock, and as I said earlier..."

"Oh, shut up," Brian cuts him short. "I don't wanna know details about my former drummer's cock."

"Of course you do," Tim laughs. "So, Ginger'd indicated that he'd let me suck him off if I behaved, and that's why I stayed in there."

"Okay," Brian says. "And then what?"

"Then Pogo decided we needed to discuss some threesomes."

"Okay," Brian says again. "And then what?"

"What do you think?" Tim asks. "I organized us one."

"Fuck," Brian says, chuckling, shaking his head. "And Pogo?"

"Oh, luckily he'd fucked off," Tim says. "Fuck. That would've been a _mess_."

"Isn't it already a mess?"

Good point.

"A _mess_ mess, okay?" Tim says. "Fuck. Pogo. Like me being a part of it isn't enough."

"Hm," Brian says, taking a swig. "Good point. So... How did you organize it?"

"Jesus," Tim says, taking a swig too, but more carefully. His ass _hurts_. "The usual way? Like I always do?"

"I haven't had threesomes with you. So..."

"Fuck," Tim says. "Well, I just said that we should fuck. Like, don't you guys think it would be a great idea, come on, let's get right to it. Something like it."

Brian snorts.

"Oh yeah, and they immediately agreed."

"Of course not," Tim says, laughing. "That guitar fairy brushed me off like lint from his shiny blouse."

Brian finds it amusing too.

 _Not so scared when the pixie is asleep_ , Tim thinks to himself, grinning.

"But Ginger is another story," he continues. "I mean, you yourself thought they'd been blowing each other long before I got there. Fucking lovebirds."

"Monkeys."

Tim pushes Brian. Brian pushes him. 

Tim takes a drag.

"And..." he says, breathing out the smoke. "Well, Ginger was this deep in my shit by that time," he gestures at his chin. "So I really just had to snap my fingers and the magic started."

"Magic?"

"Oh yeah," Tim says. "And the elfin ale has been steadily flowing down the drain ever since."

"Wow," Brian says.

"Wow," Tim says too, nodding.

They drink beer.

Tim smokes.

"And how..." Brian says, then stops, clears his throat.

"What?"

"How did you manage to weasel your way into Ginger's pants? I mean---"

"I know what you mean," Tim chuckles. "It's simple. I didn't have to."

"Like..."

"Like his pants were open."

"What?"

"His pants were open. His stunning cock was hanging out."

"What? And fuck off. I'm not into cocks. Or my former drummers."

Tim shifts, putting his head onto the back of the couch.

"He went out of the tour bus to have a bit of private time," he explains. 

"Okay..."

"And I went out to take a leak and smoke."

"Okay..."

"And I saw his cock."

Brian laughs out loud, coughing a bit.

"Fucking hell," he says. "You are crazy."

  
When Brian comes back after visiting the sexy bathroom and pushes Tim to sit up and stops him from trying to put his feet or his fucked up head in his lap, they open two more bottles.

John's still asleep.

"Hey," Brian says.

"Uh?"

"That weird dildo..."

"Ginger's severed tentacle? Tim asks.

He's also about to ask _what about it_ , but Brian stains the floor with beer.

"WHAT?"

"What?" Tim says. "Some guys name their cocks. I name my dildos."

" _Ginger's. Severed. Tentacle?_ "

Tim laughs.

"Yeah," he says, shrugging, lighting up a cigarette. "Long story short: he has really, really, really tender fucking hands."

Brian chews on his incredulous lips.

"He's a _drummer._ "

"So? You're a threat to children and a menace to society, and look what a giant softie you are," Tim says, taking a drag. "So why did that cock pique your interest?"

Brian narrows his eyes at him, pulling on an unpleasant smile.

"Smartass," he says. "I just... It's weird. Is it yours or his? Looks more like something he would buy."

"Mine," Tim reports. "The greedy bastard's stolen it from me, but originally it's mine."

"And it's yours because of..."

"Yeah. Symbolism and shit."

bloomfield nude pig (NY)

"Hm."

Brian takes a swig. Tim takes a drag.

"Funny, I thought you'd be more intrigued by the cage."

"After what I've seen?" Brian snorts. "I'm sure it's yours. And you've given it to him yourself. Keys and everything. Fuck, I bet he even like gags you with his underwear or something..."

Tim laughs, throwing his head back.

"Remind me to give you some coins when you leave."

Brian shakes his head.

"God, you're crazy."

They drink beer.

"That tentacle is not the weirdest thing that's been in my ass," Tim says.

"Oh?" Brian says, angling his head towards him. 

"Yeah," Tim says, also changing his pose, glancing at Brian. "By far." He smirks. "Wanna hear some fables?"

"Indeed I do."

"Listen up then," Tim says, propping himself on one elbow, feet on the couch. "So I was hanging out with a pal of mine at his house playing Atari 2600 or something, when two of our other friends arrived, and one of them brought the most peculiar umbrella with him..."

Brian groans out a laugh, covering his eyes with his hand.

  
The cocks of all those pals have visited his ass too.

  
Not that very day and not at the same time, but.

  
When both luck and intentional devices bring the three of them into Tim's bedroom once again, Tim's ass gets pounded.

When the three of them meet at Tim's for John to be pissed at him, it goes... 

Well, it's _interesting._

First of all, Brian gets a good look at his overly stretched, squelching hole - and not only that.

Part two - Tim's speech generator malfunctions, stuffed with a dildo at his own request.

Part three - Tim comes on cock. Without malice.

  
Also - direct dialing gets reinvented.

  
"Fucking decapodifucks," Tim mutters, moaning, pushing the dildo in, legs pulled so high up he himself turns into a specimen of Caridea.

Brian shifts in his chair, gripping the back of it tight, eyes glued to Tim's hole Tim is penetrating.

That has been the vibe of the last five minutes.

With some other... _interesting_ additions.

"Sorry, no," Brian said, pulling up a chair and placing it as close as possible to the bed Tim was spread on, reacting to John commanding Tim to show him to the gallery with cheapest seats. "If I'm to look at his hole, I'm doing it right from here."

Tim looked at John's lips turning into a thin line right from his undignified position on the bed.

He wondered if that spade was buried somewhere deep in the storeroom according to Ginger's cataloguing system or if by any chance its blade was poking from under the bed for no reason, the thing lurking there in the dark, abandonded by his own hand which had dragged it here fuck knows why.

He lived through a bit of awkward silence.

Then John turned his irritated gaze away from Brian, refraining from homicide, and Tim proceeded.

"Fuck, wow," Brian said just a few minutes earlier, when Tim was still commencing.

Tim had undressed, John was sitting on the bed, Brian standing like a pretentious, slightly decadent lamppost in the middle of the room, Tim hopped on the bed and threw his legs wide apart and pulled them up, hooking his arms under them.

"Fuck, wow," Brian said, presented with a view he probably had never thought he'd see either.

Tim smiled, because the view was a bit mundane in his opinion, but it was about to get much, much better.

"Jesus fuck," Brian said, when that had happened. "What are you even doing, you unhinged whore? Stretching is about preparation, not poking a brand new hole in there."

 _How would you know_ , Tim thought to himself, chuckling, pulling out the fingers and spitting on them again. 

"I'm a big fan of gangbangs," Tim responded, shoving them back in. "I need more holes."

Another admirer of group activities - if he's the coach - who might one day _make_ him into holes shoved a dildo in his free hand.

"Get it in," he said. "And tell him to stop looming over here. There're enough other places to sit down."

That's when Brian started making calls without an operator.

So yeah. _Interesting._

  
That's not to say that all of it is so revolutionary, no.

Good old things occur as well.

Brian engages in slutpraising, drowning Tim in his coarse compliments and beating off, nursing his cock, John treats Tim's head as if it is a trashcan, pulling at his hair and pushing him away when he tries looking up at him, all but kneeing him in the face and not because he wouldn't like to, but because that's not how his parents taught him to handle property and because he's sitting, and Tim takes Ginger's severed tentacle as deep as he can, turning it around and pulling at the walls of his rectum, stretching it more than it is strictly necessary, both to amuse Brian with his talents and to imitate an exercise he himself is very fond of, because it is between a story about double penetration and another one about spit roasting that he gets caught, verbally and mentally.

But mostly mentally, his actual fate decided in the turbulence of tempers.

He does try to talk at first, working off that delightful idea of brand new holes and mentioning all long sharp weapons he would love to be pierced with, all the way from his fortunate back entrance to his chatty front door, discussing pros and cons of being a banana two little monkeys have to share with Brian, slipping in and out of being Delphic in his self-expression, glancing up at John from time to time to check if he's been spotted, relishing the possible future punishment, John being a virtuoso who's only able to tell his fingers from his ass to then stick them in his ears and consistently pushing him away, telling him to look at Brian - without saying the man's name, of course - and slapping him when he tries whining and giving him puppy eyes. 

Slapping him even harder when he mentions the overwhelming beauty of his visage. 

Hissing _you're not here for me._

_Ha._

  
So Tim looks at the ceiling and at Brian, conversing with him too, but without reaching any robust conclusions this time, his glorious stories of the past getting mixed inside his head, Tim asking John if he can ask Brian to slap his cock, which just might bring him back to contemporary events from the dreamy realm of being peeled alive and jabbed from both ends, and obviously hearing _no_ in response, snarling - that earns him being punched in the face - and instead observing Brian's demonstration of his desire to fill up all his holes that are on offer even though he's completely hitched.

Not that he doesn't enjoy seeing how Brian pumps his cock, because he does.

And he does so _drooling._

It's just he's gotten carried away again, being a creature of the ocean.

It's just he's thinking he'd give everything he has for Ginger to arrive from his book club or whatever right then and there, getting shocked half-dead by the debauchery, but then, of course, joining in as well, he'd give the whole universe for being fucked not by Ginger's severed tentacle, but by the squid himself, to be impaled on his awesome cock while John screws up his snout, slapping, gagging and just using him, he'd give that whole universe he wants to stand witness to him being peeled alive and jabbed by cocks like that, because it's not just Brian who he wants attending the fuck fair, though the fucker would get his own royal box, it's _everybody._

Thus his soliloquy dynamo is rendered if not useless, then at the very least guilty of sloth, and his friendly dialogue with Brian is also far from being silver-tongued.

But all six hands that are present in the room are industrious, and the one he's shoving the dildo in his ass with is no exception, and also he might not exactly get off on being accused of promiscuity per se, but he definitely appreciates the thought behind the charge, and also his vision might be blurry for he's floating somewhere deep, but he does see Brian's cock he wouldn't mind having in all his holes too, old and new alike, because he's really cordial with most pals of his, and also Ginger might not be here, might be at his book club or elsewhere, but John is here, John's holding his fucked up head by his messy hair, John has just slapped him, John is a perfect little sadist, and also what John commands he do might be a bit dumb sometimes, because the stupid virtuoso never listens, but John does command him, and in the end Tim does what he does with as much ease as he had to make efforts when he was trying to avoid going out with the blast the last time, recreating fuck ups in his mind and staining his tongue with mold and dust.

Tim does what he does almost involuntarily, radioactive blood gushing out of him.

"Oh fuck," he says, writhing on the dildo, legs numb, hand strained, hole fucking pulsing. "Fuck, John. _John_."

And then he tries to shove his snout between John's legs, right into his bulging crotch he's been stealing glances at.

And then John slaps him.

"Fuck, John, please," Tim groans. "Please, stuff my fucking throat."

"Shut up," John says.

John's austere.

"Jesus, John," Brian says.

Brian's much more liberal.

"Let the damn slut suck on something," Brian offers, magnanimously and panting. And having fun. "I'm sure he's got enough cocks in here for a whole harem, if you're so reluctant about me seeing yours."

_Oh fuck._

Tim lives through a short battle between two God's representatives on Earth.

"Fuck," John says, leaving Brian only half-incinerated and looking down at Tim. "Where are your filthy dildos?"

And where is that spade.

"Donno," Tim exhales. "There might be one on the balcony."

And it might even be filthy.

Tim lives through a noiseless and strangely motionless minute of being in the room alone with Brian.

"Here," John says, coming back with the glass dildo Tim used to have a half-imaginary threesome with a hangover marine animal and a long dead asshole from history and sitting down on the bed. "Suck."

  
So yeah. Then he just can't talk at all.

Not that he needs to, not that talking wouldn't probably lead him to an unsanctioned climax if he could, which he also doesn't need, not that he doesn't actually get to the edge within three seconds without that, John's hands holding both the dildo shoved in his mouth and his head up for Brian to behold the sucking, Brian's hand addressing his own phallus with fast, sure and clearly experienced moves, Tim's own hand abusing and defiling his hole with Ginger's severed tentacle, Tim doing all the hard work himself, since no one present would do it for him, be it because they are being a polite guest or a perfect little sadist.

Thus Tim gets caught between a rock and a hard place.

The rock, all that marble and lava and disgust, is staring right at Brian, gradually increasing speed and amplitude of the frictions of the dildo shoved in Tim's mouth, starting to gag him, Tim's muffled snarling, unlike Tim's convoluted love confessions, reaching his ears without fault, inspiring cruelty in him, and the hard place is Tim himself, because Brian might have a tendency to snap, but he is a softie, and Tim's a ruthless bastard, Tim is all but ripping himself in half with that weird tentacle and Tim is shaking, moaning and sweating, Tim is about to implode and somebody needs to prevent the nuclear disaster, because he can't.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brian says, having observed yet another daring turn of the dildo in Tim's positively desperate ass. "You insane cockslut."

"Brian," Tim tries to say and ask for help, for another temper tantrum, but it comes out sounding more like _bargain_ and with a Danish accent.

Fucking _John_ , though, perceives the syllables precisely.

And understands fuck-all. 

"Fucking trash," John hisses, pressing on the dildo in Tim's trap even harder, causing such convulsions in his stomach Tim immediatly gives him the golden medal and fuck that moth. "Shut up and tell him to come in your disgusting ass."

  
So yeah. That's what happens.

And sure, Tim is currently unfit to teach John the concept of contradictions and on the surface it does seem that nothing like John wants to occur indeed will, but there is a third party in the room.

"Motherfucking---" Brian starts, getting up abruptly, knocking over the chair he's been sitting on, looming over Tim's degraded form. "Will you finally talk to me? I am in the same room, John. I can hear you. And this unbalanced whore's got a cock in his mouth. If you want me to come in his disgusting ass, then fucking tell _me_."

Oh shit.

Where's that fucking spade.

And where are those spacious black plastic bags.

"You ugly, disrespectful, self-important, giant stick insect," John says, getting up as well, abandoning the cock in unbalanced whore's mouth. "Who the fuck are you? Where do you think you are? Oh, so you can hear me, can't you? Then fucking do what I said."

Oh shit.

Oh wow.

Tim spits the cock out of his unbalanced whore's mouth in a hurry.

"Oh yeah?" Brian says, taking a step forward. "Is that a dare, you dumb, fussy, childish faggot? Because I fucking will."

Oh shit.

_Shit._

Tim pushes the cock out of his unbalanced whore's ass too and it falls onto the floor, the sound startling two other unbalanced individuals towering above him with erections and clenched fists.

"Oops," Tim says, shrugging.

As far as his undignified position allows, but.

Then he employs both of his numb hands to spread his cheeks as wide apart as universe's properties allow.

"So?" he says then.

  
So yeah. _Interesting._

  
The spade rests behind Ginger's drum kit throughout the time what happens happens, having been put in there by Ginger's hand fuck knows why, and what happens is that Brian gets to come in Tim's disgusting, stretched, squelching ass put on display and on some other items too, like on the sheets and on Tim's balls and so on, because Tim keeps wriggling there, snarling his head off with an open mouth, staring up at both unbalanced bastards, but mostly at Brian, because, you know, is he a provocateur or not.

What happens is that after Brian drowns Tim's open pulsing rectum in his come and Tim stops going absolutely crazy about feeling it trickle into the cavern, John also gets to come in Tim's ass.

Not right away, of course, but.

John doesn't come in Tim's ass right away, because there is still Brian's come in Tim's ass and John won't go anywhere near it and because he's still standing, dumbfounded and scintillant, while Brian is already starting to sway and mutter _fuck, I'm..._ , because he is a softie with some liquid baggage in his pants, so first Tim gets up too, not fully, just enough to push John down onto the bed, propelling his stiffened limbs through the sheer force of will, then he wipes his inner thighs and ass with his own conveniently discarded sock, then he says _lie the fuck down_ , because his mouth's now free to be that of a rude dickhead, then he pulls John out and spits on him a few times, saliva in short supply in his rude dickhead's mouth, then he gets on top of John, pushing him again, because the dumb, fussy, childish faggot tries to shake him off, then he goes down on John's cock in one sharp motion, throwing his head backwards and letting out a low rumbling moan.

"Ohdaddyfuckmeup," he groans, incoherent, and starts moving, taking John as deep as he can and deeper, racing on his cock, hoping John is closer to the brink of orgasming than he is, hoping that all that pissed off adrenaline cruising in his disintegrating body brought him this close to the final burst, sincerely hoping he himself would be able to cheat the little death and stay away from satisfaction.

He even says that, though not very articulately either.

"Fuckfuckmedaddy," he says, grinding down on John, staring at Brian staring back at him, mouth agape, as if he's that bullshit Norvegian expressionism creation. "Jus'fuckmelikeawhorethewayyouwantto. Don'tgiveashitaboutme. Iwon'tco---"

Then his eyes roll back, because his own right hand - traitor - slaps him across the face.

Oh shit.

John growls underneath him, grabbing him with his sizzling hands, trying to stop him or to keep him going or to force him onto himself or to force him into something else or to simply crush him and maybe bury him with that spade he won't ever find.

"Oh shit," Tim says, slapping himself again, riding John as if it is the last sprint of his life and almost passing out. "Oh fuck, Brian. Fuck."

Not that Brian can give him any aid.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," Tim says, looking at his last resort looking back at him and being of no service, standing there in shock. "Ohfuckmedaddyfuckmehard. Fuck, Brian, I'm gonna fucking come."

He's just an extremely horny babbly slightly fetishistic Pythia predicting her own doom, that's what he is.

And it is honest to ancient gods accident that he fucking comes.

Cross his hollow of hell full of fucked up desires.

  
So yeah. He just comes.

"Fuckdaddyruinme," he grits out, cramming four blows landing on his rabid snout into one second with some change, and clenches on John's cock like a motherfucker. "Oh fuck, Brian, I'm coming. Fuck. Oh fuck."

And then he comes.

  
"Oh shit," Brian says.

Then John spits out countless sibilants as a cobra residing in fucking Jutland that mean one thing and one thing only - Tim's imminent demise - and grabs Tim by his arms, throwing that aircraft right into the muzzle of a volcano, because it is an emergency, and fucks the living daylights out of him within one second with some change during which Tim continuously howls out his name.

Then John's junk burns his insides.

John yet again shoots right through him.

  
Then Tim starts laughing.

  
"Fucking hell," Brian says from above, the two of them still in the epicenter of the earthquake, and Tim just loses it and starts chortling like a maniac, choking on his own bitten tongue and bursting into tears and hiccupping.

  
Then John starts laughing.

  
"Fucking hell," Brian says from above, and Tim turns into a guffawing fucking idiot, and a violent vibration goes through John's tense body underneath him once and twice and once again, and then John starts giggling like a fucking humming bird turned into a weapon would, high-pitched and dumb and yeah, a bit hysterical.

  
Then Brian joins them.

  
"Fucking hell," Brian says from above, and both Tim and John laugh their idiotic heads off, shaking so hard the bed jumps beneath them, and Brian pshaws at them and snorts and does all his raspy things and laughs with them, not of a sound mind too.

"The fucking pair of you," Brian then says, slumping down onto the bed right next to them, black hair dishevelled on the pillow, face a permanent mask of trauma, his no doubt spinning head in mere centimeters from their indeed fucked up ones. "I'm never doing this shit again, you fuckers."

  
Which is not untrue.

  
There's just so much other _interesting_ shit to do.

  
Then there is a tempest in a teapot, things like getting up and talking in a grown up manner, zipping up the pants and forcing Tim to wear clothes as well, deductions and something similar to actual apologizing, but not quite, being obnoxiously polite and then pushing him out of the room to fuck up his and only his lungs on the balcony, and yeah, surely, in the end Tim doesn't go for a quick drive to the nearest supermarket to buy a canister of hairbleach and throw a nostalgic party, but John finally acknowledges Brian's presence in the room and in Tim's life and Brian says he can be a bit of a jerk and that he was a jerk, and Tim just spies on them from the balcony, alone and together in the room, grinning and then grinning even wider, when both the childish, self-important, fussy, disrespectful bastards notice him doing that and catapult his own dirty socks at him.

Then Tim shows Brian out, blowing him a kiss as he leaves.

"See you in a few days," he says, winking, and well, it's actually a week, but yeah, he does.

  
Then Tim comes back to bedroom and sees John in an introspective mood.

Which is quite a sight.

Especially considering there is a neglected plate that's full of cake waiting for him at the nightstand.

John's even kind of gnawing on his own fingers instead of devouring it, and that is simply inacceptable.

"Hey," Tim says, leaning on the doorpost. "Stop that. I didn't bake that cream monstrosity for you to chew your nails. Also, didn't your mother tell you that good boys don't do that?"

John glances up at him, purses his lips and looks away.

John looks... 

Fuck, is that remorse?

Wow.

"Hey," Tim says, taking a few steps closer. "What's up? Have you found _my_ nail in that cake or something?"

John glances up at him again, completely wipes the lips off his - fuck, is it really repentant - face and looks away, his neck turning almost one hundred eighty degrees.

"Fuck," Tim says, now standing right next to the bed. "John. What's the matter? I'm sensing there's been a tragedy."

John swallows hard.

"Were you," he says, glancing up at him. "Were you talking to me?"

"Huh?"

"The last time," John says, his facial muscles tense. "Were you actually talking to me the last time?"

Wow.

Tim's facial muscles twitch in a smile.

He tilts his head. He shakes it.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course. Of course I was talking to _you_."

"Fuck," John says, voice frustrated, and turns away again.

Wow. Wow. Wow.

"Hey," Tim says, sitting down. "Look at me."

"Fuck off," John says. Stubborn bastard. "I feel fucking dumb."

Tim laughs softly, takes him by his shoulders, turns him around.

"Don't do that," he says, smoothing out the wrinkles on John's sulking visage. "Don't do that to your pretty sadistic face, you little monster. It's no good."

"Oh fuck off, Tim," John says, pushing him away. "I feel so, so fucking dumb."

Tim puffs out another laughter.

"You are dumb," he says, taking his angry hand in his own. "But that's completely fine. Not everybody is a smartass." He kisses his knuckles and then his fingertips. "And you're perfect." He licks at his fingertips. "And I am your personal garbage slut, Daddy."

Needless to say, then he bares his teeth in a shark smile and takes John's fingers in his shark trap, sucking on them.

John exhales sharply, vexed, but letting him.

Tim puts his fucked up head in his lap.

"Fuck," John says. "I'm fucking dumb."

Tim smiles, shaking his fucked up head.

"Yeah," he says, holding John's hand. "Especially your ridiculous... jealousy. Or whatever the fuck it is. You just never listen, John." He plants another kiss on his palm. "You fucking own me, you know. From here," he gestures at his sockless toes, "to here." At his messy hair. "I am your repugnant piece of trash, John. I'm yours entirely."

John bites his lips.

"But that offence you took with Brian..." Tim continues, shifting to lie on his back and looking up at him. "That I kinda get."

"It's _dumb_."

"Yeah," Tim agrees. "But... You know, he kinda was an ass to you." John's hand tenses up a bit. "Not maliciously. He doesn't mean a thing he says. It's all lyrics to him." John lets out a loud breath. "But he was an ass. And I just kept hanging out with him like he's my best mate. Which he is." John's next exhale is also telling. "So I get it. I mean, you suck my cock, and I won't stop giving bear hugs to a fucker who upset you? That's---"

"Still dumb."

Tim chuckles.

"Yeah, but I get it," he says, rolling off John's lap, propping himself on his elbows. "Come on, stop brooding. You being dumb is old news." John squints at him. "You've got brains of a sadistic gold fish, but play like a god, Ginger is a gutless alcoholic jelly, but his cock is a masterpiece, and I am an appalling monster and have no excuses to exist. That's it. That's how we roll. Now let's eat some cake."

John sighs like a drama queen he is and slowly slides down too, graceful as always, and Tim pulls the forsaken plate full of cake closer, shoving a spoonful in John's mouth.

Cake is John's redeemer.

"That's better," Tim says, smirking, watching John chew, bliss gradually replacing that weird penitence or something that dimmed his face. "Just like don't forget to feel guilty enough to finally let me fuck the raspy asshole properly."

He doesn't really have enough tenacity to drag the giant stick insect back into the shit pit on such a short notice.

Also, he expects John's elbow to crack his ribs.

Or at least a celestial jab of fingers.

John just looks at him.

Not even a stuck out tongue?

"I'll punch you for that," John says, looking at him.

Wow.

A promise.

"I know," Tim chuckles. "You're welcome to."

"I mean it," John says, still looking at him. He does too. "But yeah, okay. You can. Fuck the bastard. Suck his cock or whatever it is you want."

Tim smiles, fills another spoon, brings it up to John's lips.

"Thank you," he says. "Now show your fullblown wrath to this worthless cake of mine, please. Daddy."

  
A week later, when Tim sees Brian, now at Brian's house, he fucks the bastard.

He sucks his cock and then he rides him, minimum stretching done, because fuck it, he's already way too inspired by the blowjob, and gets close to passing out and then just close and then he comes on Brian's cock while Brian's calling him his little whore.

And asking if he wants Daddy to come on his face, of course.

And coming on it afterwards, because yeah, he's got a kink.

  
Many weeks later, when Tim is done seeing Brian at Brian's house, when he's already trying to pull off the tights and gloves and fucking lacy panties off himself, he decides that maybe it is time to address the cabaret dancing elephant in the room.

"Hey, dude," he says, standing up, wiping off Brian's come and _Brian's make up_ off his face with the back of his hand.

"Huh?" Brian asks, turning his hazy gaze towards him, relaxing on the bed. "I don't know where your fucking cigarettes are."

Tim chuckles.

"There," he points at the pile of his own clothes on the floor. "That's not what I wanted to say."

"Hm," Brian says. "Then what?"

Then Tim makes a pause, scraping his nape. 

Not for drama, it's just...

He's more of a _shut up and do it_ kind of person.

"Like..." he starts and sighs.

"Yeah?"

"If you..." _Jesus, stop being so Ginger_ , he thinks to himself. "Well, if you ever want to flip the tables in regards to our R and R, then you know, I'm willing to provide you with that experience free of charge."

Brian squints at him, pausing for fucking drama.

"And what makes you think that I want to flip the goddamn tables?" 

Tim sighs again, now irritated.

"This," he points at _Brian's tights_. "And this and this and this." Gloves and panties and the fucking make up. "I mean, do we really need to go and stand in front of the mirror side by side?"

Brian drills him with his eyes for a few more seconds, then sits up, picks up the towel off the nightstand.

"No, we don't," he says, wiping his face too.

"So..." Tim starts again. "Like maybe we should talk about it?"

"Oh, fuck off," Brian says, throwing the towel at him. "I have been talking about it my whole life with or without you. Stop being so arrogant. You might be the smartest asshole where you live, but I am not so dumb myself."

Tim catches the towel.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. Point taken. You aren't dumb. But..."

"But what?"

"I still can do it. I mean, sure, I can turn a blind eye to this and this and this," he points at Brian's slutstuff again. " And to those cocks you aren't into. But I also can do it. If you want. I am an asshole, but I'm not judgy."

Brian pshaws at him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says. "What are you, a fuck emancipator? I know you can. You smug Swedish cunt."

"So..."

"So do you _want_ to?"

Oh.

"Oh," Tim breathes out, standing there in the middle of the room like a decadent, slightly desecrated smug Swedish cunt.

"Uh-huh," Brian says, raising both his eyebrows at him.

"Oh," Tim says again.

"Well, do you?"

Tim exhales loudly, looks around the room, glancing at that mirror they don't need to go stand side by side in front of.

"Fuck," he says, shaking his head a bit. "No. Not really."

He smiles at Brian, who's still watching him expectantly.

What does Tim Skold want indeed.

He sighs, puffs out the air and smiles again.

"No, I don't," he says. "I just want to come on your splendid cock and get a mouthfull of your classy junk and then discuss fucking Ecclesiastes or something with you and get absolutely wasted on your pretentious absinthe. That's it."

Brian chuckles.

"Well," he says. "Here you go."

"Hm."

"Yeah. Enjoy. I'll poke into my wounds myself."

Tim chuckles too.

"Fuck," he says, bending over, picking up the cigarettes. "Alright. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

Tim shoves a smoke between his retired teeth and goes onto the balcony.

"Hey," he says, stopping in the doorway. "So how about the next time you poke your fist into my lascivious hole?"


	24. There is no fucking green tea in my fucking house

  
Tim slams his fist into the wall, chafing the skin on the side. 

His phone is lying on the table, near the dish rack, thrown there by his own hand maybe ten minutes ago. Too long ago.

And not enough. By far.

He's still standing there in the kitchen, after all.

And it's not about the phone or the call that he was taking, that was alright, it's just...

  
He hears the sound of timid, frightened steps coming from behind.

"Tim," Ginger says.

  
Cold sweat trickles down Tim's spine slowly, freezing, meandering and slick.

He shivers, trying to shake the feeling off, and turns around.

"What?"

Ginger looks at the floor briefly, fumbling with an empty bag of peanuts he's probably come here to put into the trashcan.

"I uh..." he says. "Are you o---"

The cold thing spreads, licking at his shoulderblades.

He chuckles, low, dull.

"Do I fucking look like I am?"

Ginger's still studying the floor, but it's not like he really needs to see Tim's distorted snout to know exactly how he looks. 

Now does he.

Ginger licks his lips, puts the empty bag of peanuts on the table, Tim following his motions with his eyes.

Then, because Tim follows his motions with his eyes as if that empty bag of peanuts is his worst enemy, as if it's desecrating the fucking table that's meant only for throwing phones at it, Ginger makes a move to pick it up again. Because Ginger has glanced at him, has managed.

Tim follows that motion Ginger never finishes as well.

Ginger puts both his hands down, fingers moving.

"Can I d---" he starts.

Tim laughs again. _Like you don't know the answer._

Then words bubble on his lips, forming into sentences that would tell Ginger what it is that he can do for Tim, and others, related to what Ginger himself is, are queuing after them already. The poison stains his chin, and Tim lifts his hand to wipe it off, and then... Then he keeps his hand there. His own touch seems unfamiliar. He stops. He breathes into his palm. 

He stops.

"Fuck," he says, dropping his hand. "Fuck, I..." He looks at Ginger, who's standing there in front of him, at a distance, formal, royal fucking distance, he looks at his soft chequered shirt, dark green and dark blue stripes crossing with each other, at his messy hair that is not exactly clean, at stubble on his face that is maybe only a bit shorter than the stubble on his own mug, at circles under his eyes. "I should fucking go."

Ginger's tired, worried face cracks a little.

"You don't have to. It's... It's---"

That kickstarts him again.

"Is it?" Tim asks, and the slick, coiling thing now grips his nape, hard, pressing. "So you look like shit simply because you're sh---" Ginger hunches his head into his shoulders, facial muscles twitching. _Fuck_. "Fuck." Tim takes a deep breath, rubs at the back of his neck. And rubs again. Thoroughly. "Sorry. Fuck, sorry. But. I must have done something. You aren't... tiptoeing here for no reason, are you?" Ginger shrinks even more, Tim's eyes moving up and down his body. "You look--- Fuck. What have I done? Tell me. What have I said to you?"

Ginger hesitates, tensing up.

"Tim, you... You haven---"

Tim takes a step towards him.

"What. Have I. Said. To you."

The thing is, his perspective suffers from Alzheimer's.

Universitetsgata, 13

The thing is, from his point of view, his skewed, cold, rotting point of view, he also has been suffering enormously in here.

Imprisoned in his own house. His own ocean. 

Trapped.

Controlled.

Even opressed.

"I uh... The tea. About the tea," Ginger starts speaking, and Tim feels bile on his tongue. "You know, that it shouldn't be... And. And that... That program you were watching. I mean... That I stayed with y---" Debris abrade Tim's lungs as he exhales leftover explosion gas. "That I didn't go to... You know, when you said so. And..." he glances at the empty bag of peanuts. "And about the trash. That I---"

"And fourteen billion other things, I take it," Tim cuts him short. Ginger doesn't answer him, just shifting on his feet instead. Tim sighs. "So why again shouldn't I fuck off?"

Ginger shivers and takes a step towards him, and one more, and now, now they are close, and Ginger grabs his hand.

"I don't want you to," he says, voice quiet, breaking. He holds Tim's foreign hand with his stupid, reckless tentacle and waits.

And waits.

  
Tim's whole body is a dead chunk of dry mud.

Tim's whole body is a rock that's never been alive.

  
Ginger looks at him one last time, his fingers trembling, and then he sways, about to let go.

"Don't," Tim says, catching him mid-motion, catching his hand and squeezing it tight, with both his palms, keeping it between them. "Don't. Hold me all you want. You fucking can."

He keeps Ginger's tender plasma between his hands, touching the fingers, knuckles, lines crossing the palm.

An infinitely late attempt at being gentle.

"Sorry," he says. 

"It's okay," Ginger says. Tim chuckles, dry, and shakes his head. "Just don't go. I uh---"

"I know. I know what you'll do," Tim says, lifts Ginger's hand, kissing the wrist. "Okay. Let's try. We'll see how it fucking goes."

"Okay," Ginger nods. "What do y---"

Tim squeezes his tentacle again, cutting him short.

He waits.

  
"Undress," Tim says.

  
He could observe the wall covered in tiny droplets of his own blood, but he would still see his awkward motions out of the corner of his eye.

He'd see the shadows.

  
Tim looks at Ginger as he takes off his clothes, hanging them onto...

Well, Tim doesn't look at where he's hanging them. He looks at Ginger. Tired. Not exactly fresh. Unshaved. Not really bathed. Hair messy. Scared. Compliant. Naked.

"On your knees," Tim says.

  
Ginger kneels right before him, he blinks, and Ginger's on the floor, his shoulders a bit tense, but only for a second, forced to relax. He shivers and looks up at him.

Goo.

"Don't even think about stopping me," Tim says, rubbing at his hand that's never belonged to him, it seems. "And don't you dare complain."

Goo nods.

"Okay."

  
Then Tim slaps him.

Once. For the green tea that shouldn't be allowed inside his house. Twice. For that program the filth didn't let him watch in peace. Three times. For his breathing. Four times. For not fucking off when he said so. Five times. For his careful, timid, frightened steps. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. For each one of them. Eleven. Twelve. For every fucking peanut that's ever been in that empty bag. Thirteen. For being such a goo. Fourteen. For existing.

Tim slaps him for fourteen billion times.

  
For being the shit he has to love.

  
Ginger cries out at the pain, tears running down his ruined face, and tilts his head.

Up.

  
He tilts his head up.

  
"Fuck," Tim says and slaps him. Again. Again.

  
Scared, compliant, naked fucking goo.

  
Again. Again. _Again._

  
He looks at him through tears, his face red, ruined, bruised, he looks at him and lets him hurt him, _helps_ him hurt him.

Lets him do fucking anything.

  
Tim shudders violently, hand burning, bubbling, emitting so much energy it is about to burst into radioactive particles, he puts it over his own mouth, wiping saliva, wiping blood that's gushing out of him, it incinerates his lips, his hand is so hot it's blazing, glowing, it's boiling.

There is plutonium in every body part of his.

He is imploding.

  
Naturalismen er deterministisk digtning.

  
He grabs Ginger by his hair, yanking his head back, fingers digging into his skull and pulling, his whole red, ruined, bruised face on display for him. He hurries, he unzips his pants, pulls his cock out, achingly hard, his hand is shaking, shaking in pain, there's so much pain, bright, piercing, scorching, he shoves his cock in Ginger's mouth he opens for him with a sob, he fucks his face he's beaten bloody while Ginger cries, and it's not even fourteen seconds that he lasts.

  
He loves him.

  
samhällsupplösande tendenser my ass

  
He sleeps on the floor next to him, next to the bed he puts him in, covering his tired, exhausted, smelly body with the blankets, he wrecks him and then he reassembles some of him, there are pills and cream and bandages, there are things that take care of lacerations and things that treat the bruises and things that prevent the swelling, and there are all those things in their house, they've bought them, they regularly buy them, and while he's reassembling some parts of his wrecked face he's beaten bloody he tries not to really think about that, but as he sleeps, though it's not like he's actually knocked out, he's barely unconscious, he's in between two worlds the whole night, as he lies there on the floor, all numb, hand, skull, face burning, chest in flux, back cold and intestines coiling, as he lies there he thinks, he fully realizes that.

And in the morning, when he is smoking by the window, puffing the fumes out with his lips, hand lacerated, bruised and swelling, almost incapacitated, when he's studying the tiny cracks in the surface of the glass, Ginger comes into the room, hair wet, a towel hanging off his shoulders, no wifebeater and loose boxers, he comes into the room, soft, careful, timid steps, and Tim turns around, turns to look at him, finishing his cigarette, putting it out, inhaling and exhaling air.

Ginger shivers.

"You cold?" Tim asks.

Ginger shifts on his feet, hesitating.

"I uh... Yeah. A bit."

Tim hums. Looks at the towel. The boxers. At the floor.

Ginger undresses. Ginger kneels.

Tim crosses the void between them, looking at his face. Tim towers above him, examining the damage. Assessing.

"You know, you'll probably need to cancel that meeting. The one on Tuesday."

Ginger swallows and nods.

"Yeah. Yes. I will."

Tim hums.

"Did it hurt?"

Ginger's teeth touch his lower lip. 

"Yeah," he pauses. He can't really bite it. "Yes. A lot."

Tim hums.

"And now?"

Ginger's breath hitches. 

"Yes." 

He tilts his head. Up. He tilts it up.

Tim's breath gets caught in his throat, the ball of nuclear explosion gas rising in his chest, blocking the air flow.

A current goes through his body.

He brushes his fingertips over Ginger's shattered skin. 

He caresses him with his shattered hand.

"And now?"

  
Ginger moans.

  
He moans, as Tim touches him. His cheek, then temple, eyelid, dark circles, nose, wet hair tucked behind his ears, chin, all of the bruises, every scratch, his lips. Tim touches Ginger's ruined face with his disintegrating hand, and Ginger moans, when his fingers slip into his mouch. He sucks them.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," Tim says, and Ginger cries.

  
It _hurts._

  
"You scared, comliant, naked goo," Tim says, unzips his pants, pulls his cock out, wrapping his hand around it, and Ginger moans as his disintegrating fingers leave traces of saliva over his face, smearing him in ash they're turning into, he catches them between his lips, opening his mouth for him, moaning, as Tim jerks off, staring down at him, exploring the harm he's done, collecting what is always given to him. "So beautiful."

  
He comes staring down at Ginger, his junk soiling the floor Ginger's standing on his knees on, and after just a second Tim also sinks down, landing in his own mess, he cups his ruined face and kisses him.

"I love you," he mutters into the tiny space between their lips, particles of their exhales intermixing. "I fucking love you so much. I love you, Ginger. All of you. I love that tea you drink. You know, I found it once while you were gone, on tour or something, I fucking missed you so, so much, I slept with that damn grassy thing on the pillow next to me, okay? I love that tea. I love your peanuts. Your flirty peanuts you used on me all those years ago. The fucking doughnuts you buy for me. I don't like the damn doughnuts, you know? Greasy, sticky, disgusting sugar rings. I hate them. But I love them. I love how you fall asleep when I don't even watch the bullshit they are showing on TV. How you put your head onto my shoulder and pass out. That I can't move. That I go all numb. That you break my back while sleeping. I love it that you stay with me. Hearing you breathe. The blankets that're always falling off you. How your sweaty hair smells. How your clean hair smells. Your stupid tentacles. Your dumb eyes. How you try to hide the mess you've made while cooking your bullshit secret presents for me. How you fail magnificently. I love that funny scratchy filling you have in your first left premolar. You know, the one you touch with your tongue when you think I can't see you. I love how you cry. How you sneeze. Laugh. Snore. Sniff. I want to eat you. Hurt you. Break you. I always, always want you. And I don't wanna go, okay? I don't. I fucking die when I am in that room. When I am without you. I want to stay here, with you. Forever. I want to always be here with you, Ginger. I fucking love you. Do you hear me? I love you."

  
Ginger hears him. Ginger's crying, breathless. Breaks and pauses.

They stand on their knees for fuck knows how long, holding each other, and Tim plants kisses on Ginger's beaten face, on every centimeter of it, he says he loves him as many times as he slapped him, he pulls him closer as many times as he pushed him away, he tries, he really tries, he kisses all the bruises and every laceration, he kisses _I know_ and _I love you too_ off Ginger's soft, warm lips.

  
He still ends up in his private penitentiary without windows in the evening.

He rots there for five days.


	25. And behold: the Pharaoh fucked off

  
One day Ginger squirms so much Tim thinks it's a new record, and does he remember many instances he can compare this one with.

One day Ginger melts so much, the deluge swamps the Earth.

One day Ginger's lying there on the bed naked, John on his knees next to his head, towering over him, Tim a mirror image of him, holding Ginger's red wet face and slapping him, turning him into helpless panting jelly for John to fuck his mouth, John's hard and also naked, breathing heavily and sweaty, pupils blown as if he is on something that he is never on because guitars, cake and flattery are his drugs of choice, John's beautiful and scary, just a little bit, just a hint of that running after people with a chainsaw he once talked about, something in his eyes and in his posture and in his whole form that says he might snap, break loose, and from there on it's gruesome murder, and Tim is aching in his pants. _Aching._

So one day Tim's the only fully clad idiot with a boner in the room, he's in the room with them, but the immersive theater they are engaged in is not for him, he's just a helping hand and a hard cock, as usual, just a specialist in slapping hard enough to bruise, to _really_ hurt, and he's slapping Ginger, drawing sobbing cries out of him, shattering his face, his eyes two black voids of pain and love and arousal, and Ginger is aroused, he's hard, lying there flat on the mattress, legs twisting, hands clenching in the sheets, knuckles white, a perfect picture of conquest, capture, slaughter, and Tim's teeth itch, Tim's teeth pierce his own meat, Tim's slapping Ginger, snarling inwardly, and nobody knows how many times his palm lands on Ginger's miserable features, neither him, nor Ginger, and John, John definitely doesn't know anything, he's engrossed, staring at the ruins of Ginger's lips, at his own cock between them, saliva all over them, blood and saliva and imprints of Tim's punches, of Tim's teeth, Tim slaps Ginger for John to fuck his face and aids him in that too, holds him by his chin, pulling his beaten mouth open, pushing him onto John's cock, gagging him and, when he starts coughing, yanking him off it and slapping him, again and again, no counting, as many times as Ginger sobs out John's name between the blows, as many times as Ginger forces his eyes open and looks at John when he has no opportunity to talk, and John looks back, swinging in the noose with him, John looks even more obscene than Ginger does, greedy, fiery, overkeen, moaning in a positively filthy, depraved voice both when Ginger's lips meet Tim's agonizing hand and John's own leaking cock, the bastards stare at each other as if it's the very first time, as if long years have been wiped off the surface of the Earth by the ocean that's lost all control and boiled, and nobody has any idea how much Tim will hurt Ginger, how much he will do for John, nobody has a fucking clue.

Nobody knows he's in the room.

Three Kings from Persian lands afar

To Jordan follow the pointing star

And this the quest of the travellers three,

Where the new-born King of the Jews may be.

Full royal gifts they bear for the King;

Fuck, Tim, fuck you, fuck off are their offering.

Nobody knows he's in the room and the bruises bloom on Ginger's fucked face by magic, eerie sorcery at work, and John comes down Ginger's throat, Ginger choking on him, both John's junk and name, John's fingers - claws in Ginger's hair, piercing Ginger's skull, John's fingers are inside him, crushing things hidden there and loving them, loving him and eating him, John's cruel hands are clean and kind, he caresses Ginger's wet, red, absolutely ruined face with them as he hisses out that Ginger's so beautiful, thinking it's gentle whisper of affection and it is, it's monstrous fondness, John bends, cupping Ginger's broken face, kissing Ginger's beaten lips and sniffing, skipping inhales, not knowing what to take with so much on offer, in need of support and assistance, and it's Tim who turns Ginger into mashed bullshit for him, his hands already made of sin entirely, his hands seasoned and experienced, and it's Ginger who urges John to continue, his hands gooey fucking tentacles, tender, loving tentacles he wraps around John, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to pull him somewhere where it hurts even more, and who knows where that place might be, he's so molten Tim's in awe about it, genuinely in awe, as if he hasn't ever put squid shit on toast and devoured him in hungry bites, Ginger's so molten he's a pool of plasma and who fucking knows where to poke it, he's just a fundamental state of matter, he's made of fully ionized love and pain and it hurts _everywhere_ , every-fucking-where, and as he comes, John licking into him, drawing delirious moans out of him, revelling in his insides, muttering encouragements against his hole, chunks of phonemes, sizzling, incoherent and enamored, as Ginger comes, arching his neck and clenching under John's tongue, Tim wonders when did John even get there, when did he choose, how did he do that, what clockwork brought this configuration to life, Tim thinks it must be eerie sorcery, it must be magic and it is, it's their own magic for Tim's not in the same universe as them, Tim's watching them in trance from outer space.

Somehow a bit later he still sleeps in a pile of limbs with them.

  
But earlier than that, one day, Tim is in the room with them, Tim's on the bed with John, sitting side by side with him, a pair of monstrous creatures, the old guard and the new generation, and Ginger is on his knees before them, an instance of self-flagellation on the floor, discussions of past events resulting in exploration, long, convoluted clauses, subjunctive and conditionals, all that _I'd..._ and nothing further, all those _ifs_ , all that _I want you to do to me all that he's done to me if - if - you want to do all that to me, if - if - you want me_ , all that o _f course I want you_ , all that _yes_ , that _yes, I do_ , that _just not_ , that _just not like him_ , all that _of course I want to do all that he's done to you and more_ that's left unspoken because the feast is young, all that _I want to do it better than him, I want to rob him, steal you from him, I want to rip you out of him, because fuck him_ that has been said, but sub rosa, between the one who says _I want to_ and the kitchen window and _him_ , because _he_ is the devil that loves to hear confessions, all that and more, so many words, but the words uttered when Tim sits side by side with John watching Ginger torturing himself for them are a bit more scarce, though needed, because Ginger's hand landing on his face and cock is doing it for _him_ , whereas this time the dinner party should be John's.

It is John's birthday and John's present, after all.

  
So one day two monstrous creatures talk about their preferences.

"Hey, what?" Tim says, glancing at John, yanked out of his bloodthirsty stupor caused by Ginger self-immolating on the floor, yanked out of it by Ginger's fear that dazes him, because what can he be afraid more of than Tim not knowing where to stop. "Don't you like it?" And yes, it's that. It's John wishing to stop him. And John... "Not your thing?"

John's scared too.

John shivers, as Tim puts his arm around his shoulders. John's tense, as if he's about to go on stage and there is no body part of his that can touch the strings. As if he's paralyzed.

Tim's questions, though, revive him. It's Ginger who they slowly kill. So...

"Go on, squid," Tim says, looking back at him, holding John by his hair like a puppy, grip tight, and licks his teeth. "It's very much mine."

He smiles, seeing Ginger blush and shudder, his hand hesitantly lifted again, another inept blow landing on his cock.

Satisfied with the result, he turns his attention back to John.

"What's up?" Tim asks, pulling at John's hair, making him look at him, John's face contorted. "Not tasty? Unappetizing? Yucky?"

The breath Ginger's struggling to take sounds harrowing.

John shivers once more, tries to push Tim off himself. To no avail, obviously, but he still boils.

"It's---" he spits out. "He isn't _you._ "

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks. _Of course he isn't._

And John isn't either.

It's only Tim who's Tim.

Who's that type of a person. Who's _that._

"Oh yeah," Tim says, confirming John's statement full of anger and repulsion. "He isn't. Nothing like me." Especially in this particular regard, because Tim's a well-known masochistic pervert, and Ginger's just a magical sea maiden that does what he is told to do. "But he's in love with me." John's shoulders underneath his arm grow, it seems, their own incisors. And they are electrified. And they shoot bullets. "And this is our bedroom." Tim looks around the room. "This is our house." Ginger's lungs threaten to collapse. "And this." Tim nods at him, pointing the correct direction to John. Steering him into the pit. "This is what we do with him. Right, squid?"

Ginger finally inhales.

"Do it," Tim says, and Ginger shakes and slaps himself and sucks at that and moans, and Tim smiles. "Nice. Yummy." Tim turns to John. "What about you? Still no?" John seethes, telling him to go fuck himself and trying to push him off. And... "You can join in, you know."

And he would've done that, right away, he should've done that long ago, he should've never even come close to either one of them, but he's kind of stuck in there for the time being. It's John's birthday, after all. John's due his present. John's just a bit too dumb to deal with the unwrapping on his own. 

Way too distracted by the shiny foil.

"I mean, you've done all of this to me, and it was---"

"He isn't _you!_ "

And it was impeccable, astounding, it left him so smitten and undone he felt he was lying in that grave he should be occupying, it made him worship John, he's utterly devoted to him now that he's corrupted him, and yeah, neither of the worried bastards are him, they are both innocent and Ginger's not only a fucking virgin, but also the most delicate living thing Tim's ever touched with his heartless fingers, the issue is, though, Tim did touch him, Tim has crushed him, broken him, turned him into nothing, and John is made of avarice, egotism and envy. And John hates him. So...

So one day the idiots produce their syrup, whispering in bed, Tim generating clouds of smelly fog at his computer, one day all roads lead to Tim's past crimes, one day John listens to Ginger speaking slowly, softly, quiet, breaks and pauses, listens and learns about things Tim's done to him, in detail, learns how doing what he was told to do no matter what he was told to do makes Ginger feel, learns what it does to him, and because the squid is in love with him - with _him_ \- the tale is favorable towards Tim, it's not condemning in the slightest, and the cold, slick, coiling thing creeps up Tim's spine as he stares blindly at the screen, trying not to hear what he's already heard and knows anyway, surely, it does, but it does so in vain, Ginger's tale is not his sentence, it's Ginger's avowal of veneration, so Tim doesn't end up in a muddy ditch, forsaken and abandoned as he should've been long, long ago, Tim ends up sitting side by side with John, with his pretty, stupid, whiny angel who's jealous of him.

Foolish, silly baby monster.

The issue is, though, Tim's also a reckless imbecilic fish. 

So when supernal beings envy dirt from a muddy ditch the dirt rises and becomes the ocean, it forms a helping fucking hand and a nasty fucking smirk and accomodating teeth, it grows a whole arsenal of illegal weapons and gives John what John's pitch-black core made of obsidian desires.

Even if John chokes on it, spitting at him, _misbehaving._

Even if Tim has to force-feed Ginger to him.

So Tim chuckles.

"Yeah, okay, he _is_ rather flimsy," he says.

Even if he has to disembowel Ginger to please John.

John's fury surges, the marble of his body quaking in Tim's arms, and Ginger's suffocating in the pool of his own guts and blood, kneeling on the floor. As usual.

"But, John, just imagine how it actually feels for him," Tim goes on. Tim doesn't fucking stop. As usual. "His tender, easily-chewed, awesome cock and this mental bullshit of mine. His dumb adoring face and this manual abuse I'm the biggest fan of." Tim pauses, swallowing. Tim doesn't stop. It's just the meal's delicios. It's just he doesn't need to _imagine_ anything. "And you know, John, he doesn't even like it. He doesn't like pain. He likes fucking cuddling and kissing." And bland juice made of grass. "He only does it because I tell him to. He does it because I want him to. He'll do anything I say, John." John, it seems, might fucking kill him. "He likes that. Doing what I say. Just standing still and taking it." Which is... "Being a pile of slime I step on." Which he should. "Being my food."

Or maybe, Tim... 

The issue is that he really does.

"Right, squid?" Tim asks, looking at Ginger kneeling on the floor before them, and nobody knows how many tears have already soaked his pale skin.

Maybe you should kill yourself.

Ginger nods.

  
The issue is that Ginger nods.

  
John shudders.

"Oh," Tim says, chuckling, enjoying his own clearly observable success. "Better now?" 

John whines, as Tim unbuckles his belt, palming at him through his jeans, pulling him out. Erect cock as fucking evidence.

"Asshole junior," Tim says, chuckling, robbing John of the heinous belt and handing it to Ginger. "Watch. Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

  
The issue is - the fucking dirt is sought-for.

  
The issue is - they are in love with dirt.

  
Another issue - Ginger's even more fucked up in the head than him.

"Go on," Tim says, moving his hand on John's tempted cock. Ginger's misery is his both to cause and to alleviate. "Relax. You're fine. There's always my set of teeth to gnaw on you." An emergency fucking back-up he is. A fail fucking safe. "Go on. I'm always here to excruciate you, Ginj."

  
The issue is - both the idiots in love moan after that.

  
So one day they both moan, and Tim jerks John off, sitting side by side with him on the bed while Ginger slaps his soft, wet, warm parted lips with John heinous belt, they both moan as they come one after another, staring at each other's faces, watching what all of this does to them as Tim watches over them.

  
The issue is - he's there for them, but he always gets the biggest share somehow.

  
And then one day Tim suffers severe food poisoning.

One day, which happens later, later than the one that wasn't their first time and obviously later than the one before it, one day John tells Ginger he wants to slap him, tells him that he's _going to_ slap him, announcing it as if he's heralding the future, which he by then is, because Ginger likes doing what John tells him to, what John wants, because what Ginger wants is turning inside out for _both_ of them, giving everything he has even if it feels worthless to him, and Tim has his fucking share, Tim's been supplied with guts and blood and fears, shame, disgust, self-hatred, panic, nonsense, pain and love and gratitude, he's been supplied for years, has never missed out on anything, has always wanted more and more, has always taken, eaten, culled, and now it is John's turn to torture magical sea maidens, to receive his compensation for being near them, no matter how much misery this process causes to the victim being opened, spread, unfolded, no matter how much it hurts - or, maybe, the more it hurts the better, because it's then, when he's at the pathetic bottom of the ocean, when he's at his lowest, it's then when Ginger feels he's loved and wanted.

It's then when Ginger's happy.

  
And that... That is the reason Tim should be fucking dead.

  
Yet, somehow he still isn't, he's not even sent away, not locked up, not banned from entering the warm, inviting waters, basking in the sunlight, he's allowed everything, and John is too, John's Ginger's pretty, stupid, whiny god and Tim's spoiled angel, one day John says _I'm gonna slap you_ and then does, as Ginger closes his eyes, angling his head up, surrendering his blazing face, and the smoke Tim's been inhaling, sitting in the chair, burns his lungs, and venom starts decomposing him.

And John...

John asks Ginger if this blow feels like those of Tim's.

  
When Ginger says it doesn't, John hits him again.

  
One day Tim stands as a frozen statue in the bathroom, drowning in the reflective surface of the mirror, lost there among his own graven images, stands there for hours in the dark, the fotons only finding their way onto his retina through the slightly ajar barrier that separates him from two walking, talking, kissing, moaning records of his sins, one day Tim vomits into the bathtub, alone and silent, as two open fucking wounds lie there sleeping in the bed they let him in, he spews out his guts and their blood, pieces of his ugly core, his horrible body turning inside out as the scenes he's seen incinerate his retina, played before his eyes by his memory, and sure, he's seen many different things, there've been orgasms, both the kissing moaning bastards came, gorgeous as always, beautiful, John stunning, Ginger impossible, there've been hugging, quiet, sweet whispers and so much love, so many words said about it, there have been cookies in John's mouth and cigarettes in Ginger's and sure, they haven't seen what was coiling in him the whole time the venom's been destroying him, what kept meandering in there, cold, so cold deep in his chest, spreading through the veins, and he himself missed so much, he didn't even see what they'd done to come one after another, moaning, dumbfounded, staring at each other in shared trance, so close they were merging, fusing, he didn't see and didn't hear, he blacked out, collapsing on himself, John said _how does it feel_ , asked if his blows felt like Tim's and Ginger said they didn't, and as Tim was losing consciousness John hit him again and then again, again, again, and Tim was dead.

Tim should've fucking stayed dead.

  
_What the fuck are you_ , Tim asks one day, standing there in the bathroom, cold, numb, rigid, bile in his mouth and in the bathtub and on the floor, dry leaves, mold, feathers, dust, dirt from the muddy ditch that is his fucking home.

 _What the fuck are you even doing_ , Tim asks one day, staring in the black, opaque surface of the mirror he later smashes, because it feels unbearable, seeing what he is and knowing what he's doing, but that's just self-pity, pathetic, cowardly and rotten, because, well, because fucking bear it now that you've taken it, because what is truly too much are those unsuspecting, sleeping morons entangled with each other in the bedroom, breathing shared oxygen as he tries to fit his hand around his throat and fails, forcing it to squeeze the windpipe and suffering defeat, betrayed by his own wretched body, it is too much, it is unbearable, because as they, the fucking morons, as they were kissing, shaking in each other's hold, sweaty, naked, close, as they were embracing one another all he could see was cuts, lacerations, bruises, mutilation caused by him, deep gorges of the dents made by his teeth, soaked in his radioactive poison, full of it, vile, fetid, sickening, all he could see was traces of himself.

  
One day Tim smashes the mirror in the bathroom and that day becomes two, three, four days, becomes six fucking days he spends self-abandonded and self-forsaken in the dark room, and the only thing the idiots can hear him say through the barrier he mures himself with is _leave me alone._

  
But then one day all three of them are naked on the bed and panting, moaning so loud the people passing by John's house must think there is a particularly lewd choir practicing in there, one day Tim jerks off like a motherfucking racer would if racing was about masturbation, jerks off, sinking his teeth in his free hand, jerks off, watching John slapping Ginger, Ginger kissing John's hand, John's hand that slaps him, because John's other hand is on his own cock, Ginger's hand on his, another in the sheets, Tim implodes, coming like a fission bomb would if bombs were about orgasms, implodes, turning into blissful particles of shark, seeing the whole world drown in sugar, hearing Ginger saying John's name, John saying Ginger's, the chanting morons kissing, John's pretty face glowing with love and kindness and affection, Ginger's wet, broken, beaten, Ginger's stupid, weird, absurd fucking face, and certainly, John's blows making all three of them lose it there and come one after another feel nothing like Tim's do, they have different composition, don't they, their fundamental properties aren't the same, they vary and it is only Tim who's Tim and John's blows feel... Well, heavenly. Supreme. Exceptional.

They feel like John's.

  
And Ginger's.

  
John's blows make Ginger laugh and cry, John's blows Ginger kisses, wants, asks for, those blows are agreed upon, they are _their_ blows, carefully crafted, created by both of them, fine tuned to their shared wishes, and Tim, fuck, Tim's always hit Ginger the way he hits himself, and those hits, those fucking strikes - oh, he deserves them, he does, but Ginger doesn't and never has, has never done anything to be hurt so much, to be hurt at all, has done nothing wrong, and Tim, oh, fuck, Tim has done so much wrong, he has been taking, taking, taking and what he sees while coming there next to John and next to Ginger with whom he later sleeps in a pile of sweaty, come covered limbs, what he sees is a new fucking macrocosm, a universe he's not really a part of, a universe in which he's but a distant memory, old, forgotten ruins, what he sees there as they come one after another moaning like three properly debauched bagpipes would if bagpipes weren't lifeless objects such judgements don't apply to, what he sees as they come is beauty, a wondrous thing he won't be sullying, a wondrous thing he won't fuck up, the most wondrous thing he's ever seen.

  
This is what Tim sees one day, so maybe, maybe it all actually works out.

  
"You guys need to talk," Tim says one day.

It is the very first one day. It is John's first Ginger meal.

Well, the first one that is deliberate.

And there have been negotiations, not with Ginger, to Ginger Tim just gave a promise, told him not to worry, because it's only him who's Tim and John is kind, John's simply overly excited to see what's inside the box, but yeah, with John, with John Tim's been explaining metaphors, disclosing secrets, proving fucking theorems, Tim's been telling John he wants to hurt the squid, he wants to hurt him too, and John kind of does.

And Tim loves to spoil him.

Tim is a monster, after all.

  
Oh.

  
So one day Tim is sitting on the bed with them, and John's on top of Ginger, Ginger's back pressed to the headboard, and they are wearing clothes, all three of them, they have been casually chatting - the bastards casually chirping and Tim casually smoking - and now it is time to become more serious.

  
So that is what you---

  
"You guys need to talk," Tim says, he pulled both their cocks out of their pants, wrapped his palm around them and nursed them, also casually, and then he bent, took them in his mouth, sadly not two at the same time, though he did try, he licked and sucked at them and now, head already lifted, now he's looking at the idiots. "Who's gonna start?"

He keeps playing with their cocks, circling the tips, thumbing them, he waits for a reply and John shivers, Ginger shivers too, Ginger always shivers, he's squid goo, but John shivers, dark, glowing matter stirred in him, John shivers and then John speaks.

"I like it when you do things for him," John says, and Tim briefly wonders if he should also hold their heads, if he should make them look like he himself does, never stopping, not even blinking, transfixed, and if he knew how John would be avoiding him when talking to him, he would think about this longer, much, much longer, he would find some duct tape and glue the two idiots together, but he doesn't know yet and there is no need, because the morons are looking at each other voluntarily and when there is hesitation, there is also support, they cup each other's faces and urge each other on, and John is wearing mascara that will be running by the end of this, and Ginger's weird eyeballs must be made purely of affection, and Tim is looking at them both without blinking while they waver.

"I like it when you do things for him," John says, quietly, Tim's fingers tugging at his cock, Ginger shivering and absorbing the confidential information. "When he just tells you what to do." John swallows. "And you do it." 

"I like it when you let him do anything he wants," Tim hears, spine bent, tongue curling around John's shaft.

There is a sharp inhale. Then there is silence.

Tim shifts, taking Ginger in instead.

Ginger shivers.

"I..." he says. "Do you... I'd be so. So... I'd like it. If you did that to me too."

 _Grateful_ , Tim thinks, lips stretched around him.

_Grateful and happy._

"Do you want to?" Ginger asks.

There is a pause. Then there is babbling.

"Don't know," John says, stuttering. Nasty little liar. "I like... Watching. I... I do. But---"

Then there is progress, because Tim shifts again.

"Fuck," John says, Tim testing his pathetic gag reflex on him. "Yes. Fuck, Ginj, yes."

Cocksucking fucking breakthroughs.

Tim puts his palms around both their cocks. A sweep of tongue. One more. One mo---

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?

Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;

Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,

Er faßt ihn sicher, er halt ihn warm.

"What?" Ginger asks. "What do you. Want. To do. To me."

Tim goes down again, on both of them, because who knows, maybe since the last attempt his mouth has become an equal to his ass and now he can. And sure, he made that last attempt like three minutes earlier, but maybe, right? 

"God, don't know," John says, but it is not the same, it's confusion, not denial. There're so many dishes on the menu and also the restaurant is taking special orders. "I like it... Fuck, I really don't want to hurt you, I don't want to, you know, I don't want pain." This isn't either. It's just a matter of different semantic fields. "I like it when... When he puts his fingers in your mouth. And you suck them."

A pause. Soft noises. Wet and warm ones. Tense swearing. 

Tim's still trying to fit them both in while Ginger's moaning around John's thumb. Tim doesn't know it's a thumb. Yet. 

Later he asks.

"Like that?" Ginger asks, words slurred. "Do you like it?"

The questions and John's urgent response go directly into Tim's cock no one cares about. 

Tim spits on the two cocks he worships and goes on with sucking them, and fuck those shocks that hit his balls.

"Fuck, yes," John says, pitch high, voice breaking, inhales intermittent. "Yes. Ginj. Yes. Do you?"

"I uh..." Ginger says, and sounds are the same, just more miserable and muffled. "Yeah. I like to. To open. For him. To open my mouth for him. When he... Touches my lips. I... Can you. Can you do it too?"

The only thing Tim sees is shooting stars, but John can.

It seems, John can do it for quite a while.

"You're blushing," John says. 

Tim's a bit lightheaded after those years he spent floating in outer space, vivid images of what is going above his slurping head ricocheting inside his mind.

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out.

Tim's barely breathing in around their cocks he keeps shoving down his throat one after another.

John's hips jerk up, gagging him.

"God, you're so hot right now," he says, and Ginger moans. Blood trickles down Tim's tongue. "Are you ashamed?" John asks, and Tim can hear that John's teeth are also stained with red.

Dark, glowing matter is in fission in his chest.

"I..." Ginger starts. "No. I don't know. Yes. I... Maybe. Yes. Yeah."

The pulsing of John's cock inside his mouth resonates with the nuclear decaying of his heart.

"Why?" John asks.

John's voice is tender. John is kind. _John doesn't want to hurt him._

Ginger shivers.

"I don't know. John, I really don't know. Just... I just think that I look... Stupid. Like that. I'm not... I'm not you. Or him. I'm... I don't look like you."

Tim lifts his head for just a moment, gulping down liquids his mouth is full of, wiping it, and goes down again in a hurried spiral.

"You look fucking great," John objects, and Tim is just in time to taste his indignation. "You're hot. You don't look stupid. It's just sex. It's me. I love you. Ginj. Don't worry."

Tim sucks their throbbing cocks and listens carefully. Ginger huffs out wet scared breaths. Those little moans. That tingling Tim feels on his fingertips. John's circling his lips. Touching his mouth he's holding open for him.

John doesn't want to hurt him while he's corroding him.

It's not like John really wants those chocolate bars and cookies he's munching on to scream in anguish, does he.

John doesn't want to hurt him.

"Why do you do this with him?" John asks Ginger.

John only, John simply wants to eat him.

John wants him.

"Because he..." Ginger says. "He always does it. You know, when I... When I suck him." Tim sucks both of them, dragging his lips over the heads of their cocks. "And he looks. He looks at me. When I'm doing that. When he... When he's touching me like that. And I..." _And you get trapped inside your mind that I've fucked up_ , Tim thinks. _And you feel helpless. Exposed. Bare. Skinned alive._ "I like it. That he looks at me. When he's doing that to me. When I... When I'm doing that for him."

"Like that?" John asks, and Tim can't see a single thing, but Ginger moans, he moans, opened and unwrapped, so there is no need, no need to see. He knows what is going on. "Do you like it?"

John only, John simply wants him to like it.

"Yes," Ginger moans. "God, John, yes."

Then Tim crosses the intergalactic void, wet, soft, warm sounds coming from above reverberating in his ears, intermixed with swearing, John's hissing, stormy swearing, with scarce phonemes Ginger tries to generate and fails, producing moans reflected off John's fingertips and knuckles, John saying _fuck_ and Ginger most likely attempting to speak of love and verbalize surrender, Tim cruising at the speed of light, saliva running down his chin, and his journey lasts and lasts and lasts until John says _fuck, Ginj_ one final time, until John erupts.

"Fuck, Ginj," John says, breathless, voice tight, and then he bursts and pitch-black lava flows out of him. "You're... Fuck, do you know how many times I jerked off about you like that? Your fucking... I wanna gag you. I fucking thought of gagging you, of making you hold your mouth open for me, with your fingers, stretching, like just... waiting, you know, for me and, fuck, Ginj, for other... other people, for anybody, fuck, do you understand me, for _anybody_? Just holding yourself open for them until they come, I fucking thought of that so many times, of you sucking my fingers any time I tell you, like, anywhere, you know, like fucking outside, Ginj, anywhere, of you just doing that because I said so, I fucking jerked off about you doing everything I say." 

"John," Ginger manages a word, during John's monologue he was just stuttering the first consonant, he was just moaning and shaking, holding John's face with black trails of mascara on it, with black cracks on the surface of the marble the molten rock escapes through, and John was holding his, red, white, feverish and covered in saliva, saliva he himself has smeared all over it, fingers pulling at the corners of his mouth, his lips, his teeth, John was shaking, whining, travelling at the speed of light to darker places, and Tim saw nothing that was happening above him, Tim tried to caulk himself with cocks, but to no avail, Tim put a hand over his toothy trap and muffled his obnoxious snickering, Tim was snickering and shaking, because it seems it's not only a guitar somebody was jerking in the basement in his adolescence, because it seems John's favorite horror stories are porn parodies. 

"John," Ginger manages, when John cuts himself short, breathing heavily. "John, okay. Okay. You can. John, you can."

And through Ginger's usually lacking power of convincing John can, John can and Ginger's letting him, and both their cocks are throbbing, and Tim quits laughing like an asshole, Tim doubles down, licks at them and sucks in earnest and jerks them off while they rock their hips, well, John rocks his, Ginger simply flounders even though he's sitting and there is a whole monster on top of him, be it a juvenile one, Tim's drooling oral cavity is squelching as he listens to both bastards' mouths getting full, John's of snack, Ginger's of John's exploring horny fingers, Tim swallows, coughing, swallows their junk they let him have one after another, shuddering and sobbing, and when Tim lifts his spinning head seven Gingers swaying before his eyes are blushing and in tears and seven Johns are also distressed, but trying not to show it, when Tim lifts his spinning head he laughs out loud, pushing the swaying, blushing, crying, awkward crowd onto the bed.

"Fucking kiss already, you morons," he says, and the morons fall, arms wrapped around each other, the morons suck each other's ridiculously worried faces, the morons kiss forever while Tim stares down at them, stares at them and sees every second of the children's party he has missed, every second of the show he didn't see, engaged in provocative fellatio, engaged in pushing.

"So what?" he says, when the kissing bastards calm down enough to see him. He still has some more thrust left in him. "I'm fucking stiff and willing. Wanna work on those wicked phantasies of yours?"

He glances at his own rock hard cock, at Ginger's panting face, at John's baffled visage, raising his eyebrows with a smirk.

"I uh..." Ginger says.

"I uh..." John says.

"Come on," Tim says. "Cock. Mouth. Sadistic fingers. Everything is ready. Go on. I won't interfere. I'm just a prop."

Ginger turns even more red than he previously was, which is how he is signalling agreement, and John still looks dumbly at him, studying the script, squinting, not sure if he's guessed correctly.

"John, I uh..." Ginger says.

"Ginj, do you..." John says.

"Oh fuck, come on," Tim spits out, rolling his eyes. "John, he eats shit for me. He lets me slap him till he bleeds. Till there're bruises. He lets me choke him without any warning. He fucking _lives_ with me. Of course, he'll do this teenage jerk off nonsense for you. He'll do anything you want. Need you fucking ask."

And before John smashes his shark head into pieces with the headboard Ginger grabs John's hand, his tentacle tender, loving, trembling, scared of its own motions, Ginger grabs John's hand and John looks away from Tim immediately, John looks at Ginger, holding his breath, and Ginger nods, smiling softly, he lifts John's hand up to his face, it hovers there in thin air, John staring at it, stunned by the life of glory it will be leading from now on, and then Ginger gulps and moans, opening his mouth.

It's kind of miraculous how fast the horrible, alien thing from outer space overtakes John's features.

It's faster than light itself, it takes less than a blink, though Tim isn't blinking, less than a fracture of a second, it takes him many years of breaking Ginger for Ginger to unfold so quickly, it takes him nothing, it takes everything Ginger has to give, it takes the gulping moaning scared squid everything, and then it's John who takes it.

And then Tim is just a prop, Tim's watching from above, from where no one can see him, from that place where nobody cares about him, Tim watches John moving his hand around his cock, rhythmically, fast and steady, Tim watches John drag the tip over Ginger's open mouth, over his wet, warm, soft lips, circling them as Ginger wails, John's fingers wiping tears off his skin as he himself keeps sucking on his accomodating treat, Tim watches John's dessert, John's delicious present, Tim watches closely as he mutters out phonemes, come staining his tongue, gums and lips as he goes on, as he plants kisses on John's hand that smears filths over his face, Tim listens closely and not a word he hears is a call for him.

It's all between the gift and John.

  
_One day_ , he thinks, _one day it must fucking stay like that._


	26. No other gods before me

  
It is between that time when Tim spends four days locked in the dark room and that time when he spends a lonely week locked in the empty house that John takes matters into his own hands and on his own volition, though Tim, of course, is still the author of the concept and thus gets credit.

But first he gets insufferable and full of vile things that can destroy all life on Earth, all life on Earth existing in the warm waters of the ocean at that time, all life on Earth confined within one member of the cephalopod species, that tender jelly floating around him at a distance, aware of the danger, but unaware of the scope of it, Tim measuring the imminent disaster on atomic scale and leaving for his place of contemplation, left to rot by the worried oceanic creature following his own demand, four days they spend apart and separated by the buffer long and vacant, Ginger roaming about the house and removing dust from surfaces Tim never once was concerned about, lost in the quiet, frozen woods, Tim lying on the floor and trying to restart his quiet, frozen heart, lost in thoughts he is very much concerned about, cold, slick, vile things coiling in his chest and keeping him dead and rotting on the ground.

The second pillar of temporal progression John's much awaited show of intiative rests before is made of stone of quite a different sort, the lonely week Tim spends in his empty house long and full of work he does obsessively to distract himself from longing, Ginger floating in the company of creatures he's related to at a distant place, the only Tim's concern the lack of cocks he's suffering, John entertaining ladies whose boobs he tripped over and fell on, both with a body part Tim yearns to see again and with his guitars Tim saw enough of, Ginger's cock still not present in the pictures Ginger sends to John and John forwards to Tim, Tim jerking his, alone and miserable, and pulling strings of the guitars that are in his possession, the fiery warhead in his chest lost without a target.

So it is somewhere between those periods that John takes hot, pressing matters into his own hands, and that day is blessed by heavens, that day is marked by thunder, lightning and fucking whales pouring from the skies as raindrops, Tim safe from those phenomena under the roof of John's house, entertaining the pouting virtuoso with praise and flattery, John upset he had to cancel his other plans involving ladies due to the weather, Ginger left to lie in bed buried in a book, Tim following his polite request and wrapping him in blankets he dragged out of the wardrobe that's full of them, the wooly bastards multiplying on their own, and finding shelter at John's place without Ginger, admiring John's tunes alone, John himself too busy listening to his own inner rhythms and being an obnoxious prodigy whose origins are no doubt divine, Tim sitting there patiently, pinned in place by John's genius and greatness and by his own sloth, and in a more conventional time keeping system that day must take place in early March.

MOS 6507

They turn on the TV to entertain themselves by paying no attention to the screen once John puts down his guitar he's been creating sounds that belong to the different realm with, and cuddle on the couch in front of it, John's restless fingers touching, scratching, patting, pulling, pinching, tickling, claiming every centimeter of Tim's upper half, Tim pulling off his shirt before John starts his manual assessment, following John's whiny order with a smirk, his lips with a cigarette that's stuck between them quirking, his other parts just motionless and relaxed, Tim as a whole infinitely tolerant of the probing he is going through, soiling the exposed, bare-skinned specimen John is carelessly studying and skewing his experiment, flicking the ashes on his own naked chest, unwilling to go hunting for the ashtrays, John finding inspiration in his self degradation.

The ashes land not far from John's exploring hand, and John makes a face, questioning Tim's act of vandalism, and Tim just shrugs it off and takes a drag, and no phonemes are produced to discuss what happens next, and units of a higher order are also not used by either of the parties. 

John doesn't say a word. 

Vaumarcus

John takes the cigarette from Tim once Tim inhales the smoke for two more times, the ashes now gathered in a large crowd on the burning end. John flicks them over Tim's shirtless form, and they scatter across his ribs. John giggles and shoves the cigarette back in Tim's mouth, amusement visible in it's wiry shape. 

Tim doesn't make a verbal statement either. 

Tim accepts the smoke John shoves between his bared teeth and fills his lungs with the exhaust, his chest expanding, the ashes scattered across it spreading further in all directions. John then repeats all the steps to double check the findings, following the trajectory of the falling ashes with his eyes, intrigued by the apparent laws that govern certain processes in their universe. 

Tim abides by the fundamental rules as well, Tim welcomes the intrusion of tobacco in his lungs, finishing the cigarette John holds next to his lips, tilted eagerly towards him and towards the end of their speechless interaction, Tim leans back once his task is done and observes the scientist who regards his instrument with some confusion, lost in his search for possible solutions. 

John takes a glance around the room, noticing the scattered ashtrays resting on various surfaces, multiplied by Tim's hardworking hand that plants them there. John takes a glance at Tim's face Tim keeps turned towards him. John pays his visual attention to the cigarette that's approaching non-existence residing in his hand. John bites his lips and puts his other hand on Tim's bare skin covered in ashes. Tim licks his teeth and locks both his hands behind his neck. John stares at his hissing face that twists in pain, Tim stares at his pretty one that breaks in pleasure, the cigarette finds its demise next to Tim's lower rib and the burning end is vanquished on his burning skin.

The aching mark is then once more attended to, John thumbing it and pressing over it, pressing over Tim's erection too, Tim arching off the couch, welcoming the cruel touching, leaning into it, surrendering the matters John's holding in his hands. Tim's mouth swings open when John digs his nails in his skin he set ablaze, warheads also about to burst in flames in his chest, John studying his white flag of a face, taking in the sight, taking in the sting he's causing, Tim also a witness to the devastation that shatters John's focused features.

Tim's lips then part again when John pulls out another cigarette out of Tim's package, assenting to John's terms, Tim's hands still in an idle lock behind his neck, John's hands freeing him of clothes entirely, Tim's accommodating hips lifting off the couch, John stopping for the moments Tim spends smoking, looking at the field of unscientific research spread on the couch beneath him, choosing areas that are sensitive to combustion, though at this point most of them are, Tim rapidly becoming a charcoal slice of shark meat, plutonium heating up his sacrificial body.

Tim's cigarette that leaves a cinerary trail on the oceanic predator that's prepared for the ritual slaughter is snatched away from him, when John settles on the spot his burning sword is going to pierce, Tim regarding the tender tissue his pelvic cavity is hiding under that John is tracing with his fingers with a deep approval of his choice, the anatomy lessons he's given him not lost on John, the lessons learned and the truths absorbed.

Tim's cigarette John's snatched away from him is subdued on the epithelium his external iliac artery is pulsing under, not that Tim remembers of it when it happens, not that Tim's interested in its formal designation or its function or its residing place, because he isn't, he's way too busy snarling in sweet agony, divine retribution not avoided by the victim of the sacramental act, divine retribution the angel of death with a taste for feathers brings about a gift from heaven for him, pulsing of a different sort Tim's main concern while John's agitated hand delivers the blazing suffering, Tim's cock throbbing, Tim's muscles flexing, Tim's arsenal losing nukes in the sea of roaring fire, flames of a lesser magnitude smothered on his willing metal shell, Tim feeling quite tamed himself, feeling humbled, feeling he wants to be conquered and defeated even more, regarding John's bitten lips and John's blown pupils and John's elated face with awe and trepidation, taking in the sight, taking in the seething trance he's causing, John also a witness to the catastrophe Tim is.

John maps the ravaged region of Tim's lower abdomen, each one of his ruthless fingers pressing over the sore mark, tending to the wound with salt, shepherding Tim's throbbing cock with his eyes, Tim's cock bouncing merrily as Tim arches up with a pleading outcry, John issuing an impatient whine, Tim readying himself for further capitulation.

He's offered a smoke before the execution, the hangman shoving it between his bared teeth, the hangman's restless hands taking hold of Tim's excited thighs, his fingers claiming shark meat that's supplied with blood by the femoral artery, not that John's aware of that while Tim is smoking, not that he can acquire knowledge at that moment, not that he's not busy with acquiring command of Tim's radioactive armory, because he is, Tim giving it to him willingly, powerless before his cracking marble beauty, paralyzed and waiting for the sword to cut his neck, the reaper wielding it not very grim, the reaper glancing up at him, the order to expedite the smoking process written on his infernal face, his hands he's been holding Tim's excited thighs with now pulling them apart and up, Tim giving him the cigarette and pinning the sacrificial shark in place, holding his own vulnerable position, while John scans the surface he's about to ignite.

It's Tim's pelvic floor that grabs John's wandering attention, and Tim's fists clench tight at the images that fill his mind, anatomy lessons he's taught not lost on him either, John's rattled fingers lifting up his balls and gliding over the perineum, Tim's hidden muscles whose formal designations he's not concerned with at that point in time contracting at the touch, John's head also lifted by its owner, a question in his haywire eyes, Tim's shoulders moving sharply as Tim shrugs it off, the question being _are you sure_ or _is that okay_ or _am I allowed_ or a _m I insane_ or _do you want it_ or _do I want it_ or _are you gonna like it_ or _am I gonna like it_ or _should this be illegal_ or all of the above or maybe even _how do you find the weather_ , because Tim doesn't speak the doubtful language of hesitation and debate, because he's long been in agreement with his inner demons, because he simply is the biggest one, because his answer to any one of those questions and to all of them is most definitely _hell, yeah_ , apart from the improbable last one, because were John to ask him that, he'd say he doesn't give a fuck, because the only thing he thinks of at the moment is eternal fire.

The fire that is not so enduring comes into contact with his tingling skin some seconds later, when John brushes aside Tim's nonchalant shrugging attitude and displays his own, displays how deep he's fallen, how far his internal dispute with his own Belial has progressed, how close he is to the never-ending flames and to the anticipating monster with a masochistically throbbing cock that rules them, how dark his core that's been produced by a volcano is. The fire Tim's cigarette is shining with is extinguished by John's hellish hand pressing it over the exposed skin of Tim's rather sensitive to combustion body part Tim immediately forgets all the designations of, though he knows some, his mouth falling open with a pathetic sound that's followed by a nightmarish one, despair transmutating into ecstasy, Tim staring at the similar delirium that's twisting John's astounding features, John going through a rapture in reverse, shaking and not very quiet either.

Tim then switches to imperatives to express himself, though what he's doing with the verb he's using is begging, not an order, but there just might not be a mood for that in the structure of the English language, but there is for sure one in Tim's repertoire of feelings.

"Finish me," he squeezes out, and his short speech lacks precision despite the use of words, because what he begs for could be described by synonyms, because he could'be begged by saying _fuck me_ or by saying _slap me_ or by saying _chop me_ , he could've pleaded to be ruined and undone, to be destroyed and annihilated, to be sliced thin and pickled and devoured.

Polysemy notwithstanding, John understands him quite alright.

John understands him, because he for sure possesses speaking skills in the diabolical rumbling Tim addresses him in, not at the level of fluency yet, but very capable of comprehension.

John springs to his feet and looms over him, he grabs him by his hair, and his fingers press into Tim's hole, delightfully dry and delectably relentless, his thumb treading on Tim's burning perineum he still remembers zero designations for, harvesting the shark meat Tim is feeding him, Tim feeling gutted and harpooned, Tim staring up at John's horrible, John's alien, John's _penetratingly_ beautiful face, both on his own volition and because John holds his head tight and he wouldn't be able to turn away even if he wanted, Tim's own hands not so idle either, Tim's hands crushing his own cock and his jagged jaw, Tim showing John his insides while John reaches into them himself, showing him everything he's got and everything he is, John taking in the sight, swallowing the ball of fire and nuclear fucking gas Tim's exhaling, looking at Tim's twisting haunted snout, orgasm ripping through him just like John's dry fingers are, overcoming him, Tim left panting, left conquered and defeated, left utterly in love.

Tim attempts to kiss John's dry, John's cruel, dirty, yummy fucking fingers once he's done with him, once Tim is just a bare corpse in front of him, no sign of former glory in his form, Tim tries to suck them in his mouth, because has he ever had enough, and John slaps his hands away, because when did he pass the oportunity to deny him and refuse him and discard him like junk he is, though never for a long time and never far away.

John slaps his hands away and starts pulling his own feathers off, denying his jeans hugging his flawless legs, discarding them on the floor Tim feels like falling onto. John forbids Tim licking his magical sadistic fingers, so Tim drools on his own heartless ones, John falling on top of him, Tim's position changed into a more accommodating one, straddling him, careless and vibrating, whining, lacking resolve, spoiled, petulant, juvenile evil spirit, Tim pressing his wet fingers into his wriggling ass, _unlocking_ him, John's hand finding his cock right away, doubling the pleasure that is his to have, John's other hand still in pursuit of happiness and in search of something on the couch, Tim figuring it out in a fleeting second, quite proficient in the determined language of certainty and conviction, giving John his fucking aid, shoving the cigarette package he's looking for into his sweaty palm, John in his turn shoving a cigarette in his trap he flings open, Tim commiting a minor arson with his lighter, John seizing the smoke before Tim can take a second drag, and now it is his eyes that are on the hunt, John examining Tim's naked body underneath him, contemplating his outer tissue that's within his reach while Tim locates his inner parts, thrusting his fingers into him, making him moan, deep and low and obscene, John's visual chase also quite familiar to him, avidity and hunger concepts that are very dear to his wretched heart, traits he himself exhibits, the answer to John's silent question obvious to him and the question understood, John just not knowing what to arrogate with so many things on offer, Tim offering them all, the answer to John's _where_ being _anywhere you fucking want._

Apparently, John wants his neck, and Tim is more than fine with that, though, he of course, had his own deranged suggestions, but then again, who is he to make decisions here, isn't his purpose to obey, and also there isn't anything amiss about his neck, Tim very much supports this choice of John's as well, Tim tilts his head to the side once John's hand lands on his skin, assessing it before the destruction, Tim giving up the means of approach, a highly amenable sacrificial shark he is.

So John gets his neck, John puts out the cigarette Tim didn't have the chance to smoke on the skin his carotid artery is concealed by, Tim's reaction to John's pyromania, though, eagerly displayed by him and full of inspiration to the core, John clenching around his fingers while Tim grits his teeth, John's vocalizing just as sincere as Tim's, but lying on a different scale, Tim shuddering in pain that his cardiac plutonium turns into euphoria, fission taking place inside his poisonous heart once again, John shattering in orgasmic tremors of joy and satisfaction, Tim's fission spreading out and altering him too, appreciation of the captured trophy adding to his gratifying sexual experience, Tim also not sluggish, fucking him with his fingers while he comes, John himself breaking quite a lot of sweat, half of his manual attention on his cock and another one on Tim's tilted neck, his fingers digging into him, digging through his suffering, the fingers on his cock performing labor too, not at all confused by the contrasting jobs, John indeed a fucking virtuoso, and this is exactly why matters come to rest in his talented hands without any prior treaties, sure they will be dealt with fairly, just like they deserve.

  
Negotiations happen later.

Negotiations happen when they've done hugging, shaking, getting up on wobbly legs, drinking water in abundant volumes, washing off the come with it and wiping it with towels, visiting some other premises and settling down in the bedroom, Tim on his back and smoking, John on his butt and tending to Tim's wounds with pharmaceuticals and covering the marks he left on him with band-aids, Tim free of tension and relaxed, John with a frown that becomes more prominent with every mark he hides, Tim letting out a sound that indicates endorsement of the action when it is time for him to spread his legs, when he does just that and John sweeps his soothing fingers over Tim's reasonably responsive perineum Tim now can recall all the designations of that he has ever known, Tim letting out a sound and John not confining his response to it as well, Tim propping himself on his elbows with a groan, prompt in alleviating John's aching worries.

"Hey, little monster," he summons John and maybe actually adds a worry by his choice of words he's now using to communicate. "What's up?"

John narrows his eyes at him for a second and then switches to the units that are a part of speech to explain his visible unrest, though his exact expressions might have confused a conversation partner that is not accustomed to the discourse, but Tim is so far from being that.

"This must hurt," John says, pointing at the spot between Tim's legs Tim lets drop drown and stretches, once he hears John pointing the obvious, knowing he'll have to do some guiding of his own, and maybe lying there with his ass easily beheld is not the most germane position for their talk, or maybe not, maybe it very much is, but his old broken bones are way too tired for such entertainment anyway.

"It sure does," Tim confirms John's speculation.

"A lot," John adds, pursing his lips for emphasis instead of coming clean with his heavy burden more overtly, but Tim takes a hint nevertheless.

"Yeah," Tim says with a shrug. "So?"

John chews on his lips some more.

"I like it that it does," he then admits, as if Tim even needed him to do that. "I like hurting you."

"Cool," Tim says, a charming smile full of teeth playing on his lips he isn't chewing. "And I've noticed."

"You're gonna have scars," John augments his confession with predictions, as if Tim ever objected to that possible future.

"They'll only make me pretty," Tim responds, flaunting his shit ton of charisma.

"Tim," John says, hissing Tim's name that doesn't contain a single fricative.

"What?" Tim asks, not intimidated by the water snakes in the slightest, being of the ocean and quite venomous himself.

"I get off on causing pain," John says quietly, confirming things that are by now common knowledge in this part of the universe.

"I do too," Tim says, also disclosing open secrets. "Wanna be friends?"

John throws some bandages at him, causing zero pain, because they are way too soft, and thus nobody gets off on it.

"Okay, I might not be the best example," Tim concedes under John's attack, because he is indeed evil and that's no consolation. "But this world has seen sadists who aren't immoral cannibals and don't daydream about strangling people."

John crosses his arms to protect himself from Tim's countermeasures, and Tim questions his reasoning for a second there, because the world would need to squint at John with one eye while balancing on a stick to perceive that description to be fully true of him, and that eye might even be a shiner.

"I don't want to be like _you_ ," John starts again, cutting Tim's self-degradation Tim doesn't currently get off on short.

"You aren't," Tim stops him too, obstructing the path for his faulty logic. "You're better."

 _And you are a goddamn crybaby_ , Tim thinks, but doesn't say it to avoid acquiring a shiner, albeit he easily could get off on that as well and flaunt it too, incorporating facial injury into his style.

"Am I?" John asks, still in doubt. "I've burned you. I've put a cigarette out on your fucking crotch."

Tim notes his verbal intimacy with the area that's been combusted with a nod and wonders why John would think of that act as his flaw, because for Tim that was just amazing.

"Yeah, and thank you very much for that," he says, not shy to profess his gratitude or any other feelings that are in his repertoire.

"I _liked_ doing it," John says, the tone of his voice that of an objection, and Tim's left pondering why that is so, because wasn't it the fucking goal, but before he can respond with _cool_ John speaks again: "What is fucking wrong with me?"

And if Tim's honest, and he is, this enquiry is not a big surprise.

He sighs.

"Nothing," he then says. "Of course you like hurting me. You hate me. And you have due cause."

"Do I?" John then asks, and now that he is out in the open with his worries and Tim's always been very much upfront, the lessons start being readily provided and the truths are stated without holding back.

"Yeah," Tim says. "I've disappointed you."

He flicks the lighter.

"I'm not quite what you thought was advertized. The sign you read said it would be fun, adventure, passion and support. What was inside is cancer."

He takes a drag.

"You expected all wordly pleasures and I gave you shit you then had to deal with. I am not that dream fucking boyfriend from the glossy magazine you've always wanted. I am just a fish and also quite a stinky one."

He takes another.

"I've scared you and dragged into things that are frankly crazy and made you tolerate them and even more, accept them, I've made you into an image of myself, an obsessive fucking mirror I obsess in front of, I've turned everything you value upside down, I've corrupted you and made you witness the wrongdoing and after that be the judge of it, I've put a heavy box of guilt that's mine to carry on your shoulders and I've turned you into the limit to my crimes."

He flicks the ashes.

Miscibility (pretentious ouzo) - booze plus essential fucking oil

"I've swallowed you. I've restructured your fucking soul. I've changed the world you live in. I control it too. And through that I also control you. I make decisions your life as you know it depends on. And I make them while being mad and careless and just a stinky fish. Even though you'd make better ones. Even though _you_ are better. You're still dancing to my fucking tune."

He fills his lungs with smoke again.

"And I've hurt the man you love. _So_ much. I chewed him and digested him and spat him out and now he is nothing. I've broken him. Every fucking atom. And I am still doing that. And I won't stop. And his every broken fucking atom hurts every fucking day he lives. And I get off on that. _So_ much."

He lets it out.

"And also I have him. This stinky fish has what you want, John. I have Ginger. I hold him by his fucking throat. Even though there is no need. Not really. Because it's not like he can leave anyway. It's just fun to hold him by his throat. All that... dangling. So I do. And I have him too. Even though I clearly don't deserve the fucking air he breathes out."

He breathes in.

"I have him and you don't. I mean, you have some. But I have more. And you too. I have you too. Me. Mad, careless, stinky fucking fish. That just must feel so wrong. Illegal. Not supported by the laws of the universe you live in. But. Since I'm the one who's writing them... This is what you have to live with. So it's a miscroscopic wonder that you hate me and like burning my private fucking parts. It's a macroscopic miracle you haven't yet skinned me alive."

He breathes out.

"Did you catch my drift?" he asks, and what he breathed out was not a mild breeze, it was more of a hurricane, but then again, John's always been denser than the others.

So not really.

So the rock keeps standing, restructured as it is.

"So what, am I gonna start running after people with a chainsaw, is that what you are saying?" John asks with indignation, and Tim cannot stop himself from snorting.

"God, of course not," he says, shaking his chatty head. "You are a _personal_ tormentor." 

He stops for a second, basking in the radioactive energy emitting foam that fills up his chest.

"Also, you don't give a fuck about people," he speaks again. "You are a zoosadist. And quite a picky one. It's only the marine life that you get off on crushing."

John's nose wrinkles at the stink.

Tim puts his cigarette out.

"But I've got to say," he's got to say, so he does. "Your cruel interest is not limited to a single genus."

"What?" 

"Well, it's not just my fucking pain you find alluring," Tim elucidates. "It's Ginger's too."

And this time the obelisk notices the blow.

"No!" John spits out, eyes full of anger and contempt and fear. "Fuck you. No. I don't want to hurt him. _You_ fucking do."

"Sure," Tim says, inwardly in wonder why it is so hard for him to see that two things can be in the same position, when all sorts of sciences provide all sorts of explanations. "But you do too. It's not just shark. You have a tooth for squid as well."

"Shut up," John says and slaps the shark, and it is painful, but they are in the middle of the heated argument, so nobody gets off on it, even though this time the wounds are very prominent. "I am not you. I don't like hurting Ginger."

"Of course you do," the shark retorts and pats the slapped body part mindlessly, instincts guiding its behavior. "Well, you haven't tried it that much. You've just been looking for the most part. But come on, you can't stand next to me while I hold him by his fucking throat and not get affected. The world doesn't work this way."

John springs to his feet, but is this _flight_ or is this _fight_ is yet to be determined, but it is definitely not _freeze_ , because hell is not a chilly place and it is powered by plutonium, so no hypothermia.

Just acute stress and acute radiation syndrome.

"So you would like it, were you to actually try it," Tim says and locks his hands behind his neck again, leaning back, eternal flames his favorite pastime. "Ginger's fucking skin would fit you like a glove."

And the whole John's form and the whole John's essence is just two letters of denial that do not take much time to read.

And he articulates them too.

"Of course you would," Tim asserts with a chuckle. "How could you not? Do you even remember what he is?"

And maybe at this moment John doesn't remember what he himself is, because it just might be quite a struggle to fluctuate so much, because perhaps it takes a lot of effort for one thing to exist in two different places, no matter what fucking science and all its branches can say about it.

So Tim lights up a smoke and ejects more of the words he is now operating with.

"He'd let you, if you asked, you know," he says, looking up at John, his whole form relaxed and his whole essence wicked, his eyes full of nightmares and troublesome attachment, John just exhibiting gravitational acceleration in front of him, the only particles that are escaping are those of repulsion. "And if you didn't too." 

He lets out the fumes and a chuckle.

"He'd let you hurt him and then he'd thank you," he says next. "Look at you with his dumb eyes as if you are God himself. And you'd be that. And he'd love you."

"He already loves me, you sick fuck," John says.

Tim shows him his teeth he has not only for one genus either.

"Of course," he says. "But not like that. Though he would. He would love you just like he loves me. And don't fucking tell me you don't want that, you greedy shit."

And the precious stone starts to wear out.

"Because you do," Tim goes on, voice abrasive. "You want to hurt him, because he's on offer and you can't refuse anything. You can never have enough. You covet everything. Especially thy neighbour's squid. Especially since that fucking guy next door is me. You're green with envy, John. Because I have him and you are jealous. Because you deserve him more. Because you are better. So of course you want that. So much."

"You are such an asshole," John says, admition candid. "I fucking hate you." 

And then it is determined that it was neither _fight_ , nor _flight_ , it was _amalgamate_ , because then John sits down right next to the asshole he fucking hates.

"Yeah," the smoking asshole says, exhaling. "And for a good reason. Just like I said."

He sits up too and creeps closer.

"So why don't you stop beating yourself here and start beating me instead?" he says, extending his stinky helping hand. "I mean, you're fucking awesome and a God, but you make a very poor masochist."

He sticks his talkative tongue out.

And maybe painful things he uttered after the painful silence were unpleasant and improper and not arousing at all, but the pain he gets for saying them very much is, it is appeasing and apropos and it almost makes him hard again, it punishes his offensive tongue with a vicious sting and the sting's delivered in person, the person gratifying him with it his intimate animal tormentor.

"Fuck," Tim says, his swearing slurred, his burning tongue moving awkwardly in his bloody mouth, his breath catching at the splendor, and he smiles, and John who's just put out the cigarette on his awkwardly moving tongue savors his reaction, though with a sigh, a reluctant torturer he is.

And talking is not the only thing Tim's tired of, it's also John's hesitation, so then he moves his pretty dextrous helping hand again and grabs John's still uncertain one and puts it on his throat for John to hold him by it.

"Tim!" John hisses out again. "What are you doing? I..." he stutters. "I fucking want to strangle you."

And Tim rolls his eyes, because wasn't his inviting gesture clear, but since they're also in communication now after being mute he clarifies it more.

"I know," he concurs. "And I am letting you. You know, if you can't stop sinning, then at least enjoy it."

John swallows hard, Tim's wisdom forced down his throat along with Tim's meat, and then his fingers on Tim's throat Tim offered him to hold him by tighten for some blissful seconds, and Tim rolls his eyes again, though this time the denotation of the act is different.

Then John stops abruptly.

"Fuck," he says, and his eyes are open wide. "I'm scared."

And Tim doesn't like the standstill, but appreciates the candor, so he resorts to words again.

"Relax," he says and pats John's mineral formation of a body. "I know what I'm doing. I know what you're doing. I'm not gonna die here."

"Aren't you?" John asks, and Tim for sure has no plans for that, because what John says is not an order or a request or a hidden wish he pulls out of him, it's just a worry, and were it an order or a request or a hidden wish Tim still wouldn't do it here and now, because there're much better places and also because he has affairs he'd first have to deal with.

"Yeah," Tim says with a smile. "I'm an expert in perversion. And my heart is a nuclear disaster. So nothing's gonna happen. No accidental passing. Trust me."

"Trust you?" John says with resentment. "You are a fucking monster, Tim."

"Exactly," Tim readily agrees with John's assessment. "So you also know what I'm gonna do. I won't lie to you. I'll just push you over the edge of the deepest pit and sneer while you fall and meet you downstairs with my arms wide open and the deepest pit is gonna be your new beloved home and you're gonna be my beloved fallen angel. That's it. No stupid dying."

And maybe things Tim says don't exactly sound reassuring, maybe they are horrible and the very opposite of soothing, maybe Tim's death is better than suffering together in eternal flames, but this is how John's convinced and this is how John's deformed and this is how John's brought to perfection.

So John's hand squeezes around Tim's throat after this and from then on it's eyes full of words written in a cypher they both know the key to and lips pressed and parted, bitten and smeared with blood, it's four empty, breathless lungs and two esophaguses flesh travels down, it's fermions and bosons in countless numbers and the atmosphere they leave through, it's things that are frankly crazy, it's Tim being strangled and John holding him by his nuclear disaster of a heart, it's an exercise that doesn't end in orgasms due to refraction period, it's an exercise that doesn't end in accidental passings either, it's an exercise that sends both of them spiralling into each other's wicked hollows, it's when their inner monsters kiss and hug, it's when a catalyst causes chain reactions, it's when he's left with marks on his neck and on his chest and on his stomach and on his goddamn private parts and deep inside him too, it's when he's just nothing in the end, just nothing that is ready to pass out from pure bliss with a shining creature almost passed out on top of him, it's when they fuse through fission.

A bit later, though, they succeed in splitting, and it's not a schism, it's just that Tim needs to take a leak and John's hungry and also there is incessant smoking and constant whining, John saying he won't be doing this again unless there is a safeguard, Tim wondering out loud if he's just too lazy to chop his corpse were it to appear into smaller, more accommodating parts, John berating him, Tim offering to go search for chainsaws, John jabbing him with his cake covered fingers, Tim stating he prefers the cigarettes, John pouting, Tim promising him all wordly pleasures, the advertizing being genuine, John wanting more, wanting a supervisor, wanting Ginger, proving points, Tim laughing out loud and advising something less excruciating for John's first Ginger meal, John's gluttony being mentioned too and quite favorably, John spitting out insults and defaming Tim's offensive innuendo John finds faulty, sick fucks being named just that, Tim conceding and making a proposal, volunteering money, efforts and the fucking props for the first aid classes, John conceding too, ready to listen to the lectures and to conduct experiments, knowledge being better than illiteracy and ignorance, and truth better than delusions.


	27. The scientific study of the ways in which the substances combine

  
_To do drugs or not to do drugs_ , Tim thinks, leaning on the wall.

 _How is this bar even called_ , Tim thinks, looking at the intoxicated people on the dimly lit street.

 _When will their goddamn hairy tour end_ , Tim thinks, turning his face to the sky heavily polluted by the city lights.

  
And then, on this night of longing and confusion, he meets her.

She is a young irritated lady exiting the nameless bar Tim's fucking up his lungs next to and she clearly wants to do the same. She's lanky, short skirt and long bony legs, tight leather jacket, red and with a zipper, messy hair in a partial ponytail, dyed, red too, with bright blue strands, glasses with a sturdy frame, a nose ring, wide silver rings on her nervous fingers and no cigarettes in the package she pulls out of the pocket. She swears, muttering under her breath, and looks around, lips pursed, catching him in the act of watching the spectacle of her annoyance and making a face at him that also asks him a fundamental question.

_What the fuck are you looking at, old pervert._

It's probably that one.

He bounces off the wall, pulling his own still half full package out of his own loose leather jacket - and, in interest of gender equality he supports, that is not the only thing he's wearing, he's wearing dark blue boring Ginger jeans, his cool boots he's managed to keep safe from John, a T-shirt with a stupid print, no make up, but his hair is styled and it is blond as usual, he is Tim, just a regular scum bastard, some earrings, a watch, nail polish on his left hand, not as tall as she is even without the heels she's wearing because his boots aren't exactly flat too and his legs are fine, because they're moving, because he takes a step towards her, generously offering the smokes to her.

Her vexed facial experssion changes and she also steps closer to him, pulls a cigarette out of his package and says _thanks._

Her voice is a bit sharp, and his voice is the only one he's heard inside his house for the last two weeks and that's unbearable.

Fuck hairy tours. Fuck studios that need him here. Fuck all that shit. And so on.

Her lighter doesn't work.

Tim can't help but chuckle.

"Here," he says, fishing his own out and giving it to her. And covering the flame with his palm, protecting it from the wind.

"Thanks," she says again, tucking the lighter into her pocket automatically.

He smiles, lingering next to her.

She raises her eyebrows.

"Lighter," he explains.

"Oh, sorry," she shakes her head and gives it back.

They smoke, Tim leaning on the wall, her with her arms crossed, Tim lazily, her looking anxious.

Tim ogles her like an old pervert he is would do, because reputation, and when she glances at him again, he figures it is time to sweep her off her feet with his awesome lines.

"I'm Tim, by the way," he says.

She sizes him up, apparently not impressed, be it his given name or his previously described appearance.

"Uhum," the nameless young lady smoking near the nameless bar hums at him and keeps smoking.

He takes another drag too.

"Do you come here often?" he asks her.

  
And this is how she finally sees his inner charm.

  
"Jesus," she scoffs at him. "Will you stop? I am twenty two. You're like as old as my father. I'm not interested. And I don't owe anything to you. Or what, do you think women have to sleep with you because you gave them a damn cigarette? Well, you know what, they don't. So fuck off. Pick up grandpa."

  
Tim manages to sway even while leaning on the wall. Tim laughs out loud, coughing, eyes going wet, the smoke threatening to fall out of his hand, and she narrows his eyes at him, pshawing, about to get as far away from him as possible.

"Hey, hey," Tim says, wiping the tears with the back of his hand and waving it at her. "Wait. Sorry. I wasn't..." 

She looks at him, impatient, but not yet leaving, and he pauses, trying to remember what it is he actually was doing before his burst.

"Look, I wasn't hitting on you," he says, and surely she believes his every word right there and then, because he's so convincing. "I was just chatting. I've been to this place like four or five times and I can never recall its name. It's like nowhere to be seen." He gestures at the bar. "So I just thought I'd ask you if you'd had the same problem. If you come here often, that is."

She sighs, shaking his head at him, and points at the inconspicuous sign hiding in the darkest corner.

"It's Undercover," she explains, as if he is a brazen blond scum elementary school pupil who's also particularly thick. "Their name not being seen is like their whole concept." 

"Uh," Tim hums, going along with the assigned role.

"So what," she continues. "Can I go now or do you plan on not hitting on me some more?"

Tim laughs again, then shows her his palms.

"Look, I seriously wasn't hitting on you," he says. "I mean, I can. You're kinda cool. I like you. That's why I can also fuck off. But I just..." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Both my sweethearts are away and I feel lonely and I feel shitty and you seem like a type of person I wouldn't mind hanging out with and you're a pissed off smoker and I am a pissed off smoker, so, you know... Human connection? Something like it."

She purses her lips, studying his peace treaty of a form, and finishes the cigarette.

"Okay," she says. "Alright. Chatting's fine."

Tim smiles, bouncing off the wall again.

"Great," he says. "So can I buy you a drink?"

"Thanks, but I buy my own drinks," she says, allowing his careful approach. "But yeah, we can go talk inside."

  
"Victoria. Not Vicky," the young lady who rules both over her drinks and her name says, taking a sip of the beer Tim didn't pay for, sitting with him at the bar with a name he's not supposed to learn. "Okay?"

"Sure," Tim nods, throwing salty peanuts into his smiling mouth.

He likes her.

He has that tingling feeling that Not Vicky is going to become one of his best friends.

Unless it is the other way around and she drowns him in pepper spray that she most definitely has on her.

Not Vicky looks his munching mug up and down.

"And how old are you?"

After she properly interrogates him.

"Forty something," he says with a grin that grows even wider when she indicates that affectation is a wrong answer to this test. "Forty three. Till December. Then forty four."

Not Vicky inspects his facial muscles.

"It's forty three, I swear," he says, putting his hand on his heart. "I can get you my driver's license from the car if you want."

She shakes her hand and takes another swig from her beer.

"No, it's okay."

"Good. I'm kinda lazy right now. Why, though? What does it matter?"

She shrugs.

"I'm not... I'm not saying that older people shouldn't exist or something, you know. Just... They tend to be conservative. And kind of boring."

Tim hums.

"Well... I think I'm neither. But okay. Fuck me and other grandpas. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?"

"I have a part-time job. And I am a postgrad," she says, resettling her glasses. "Chemistry."

Tim hums again.

Apparently, the tune is off.

"What?" she asks, a twang to her voice. "Do you have opinions about women doing science I need to hear about?"

Tim snorts, because he's getting booed off stage anyway.

"Not really, no," he says, shrugging too. "Not my area, opinions. What kind of chemistry?"

"They are called branches," she says, as he tumbles down, chased away by the giggling crowd. "Organic. Why? Is that your area?"

He chuckles, his nuclear power station saluting her and purring.

"God, no," he says. "I mean, the most I can tell you are the names and atomic numbers of radioactive elements. I could try other ones as well, but I'll probably mix up a few and humiliate myself. That's it. Not my area at all."

Not Vicky pauses her assualt.

"Okay. Then what do you do?"

"Music."

Not Vicky's eyebrows continue, though.

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh. I turn knobs for a living. Actually, you've probably heard about one band I've been in." Not Vicky hums, because she is so impressed by him. "I'm not bragging. It's just my former boss is promiscuous in regards to media attention. I'm more like this bar."

_Do you really think I haven't noticed you saying 'whore'._

If he had to bet.

"Oh," Not Vicky says, letting his language slide, because it's not like her view of him is favorable in general. "I see. What style of music?"

"Rock. If you want to know the group. Industrial now and some glam when I was your age, if you're interested in periods."

_Very funny._

He'd bet his head on this.

Not Vicky hums.

"Not your thing?" he inquires, chewing.

"No, not really." 

"What do you like then?"

_Obviously not obnoxious assholes talking with their mouths full._

He'd win fourteen billion dollars. At least.

She shrugs.

"Early rock's fine. Some electronic music. Trip hop. Some jazz."

He hums, nodding.

"Retro vibe stuff, right?"

"Yeah, mostly. What do you play? Like, what instruments?"

He shrugs.

"Bass. Guitar. Synth. I'm pretty promiscuous in regards to instruments."

He bites down his smirk when she manages not to roll her eyes.

"Hm," she says. "Bass is interesting. But I think I like drums the most."

Tim lets the peanuts fall out of his hand back onto the plate.

"Oh. I fuck a drummer."

"Oh. Your..." _Sweetheart._ "Partner?"

"Uh-huh. One of them. Another one is obsessed with jerking guitars. But they are away in Europe. His drum kit, though, is still here. At my house. In the basement."

He figures this she actually might find funny, but if she admits that in her mind, her face doesn't betray any of it.

She laughs, unpleasant, at him, not at the joke.

She sips her beer. He chews on the peanuts.

"Are you bi?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Or pan. In less old school terms. I'm not faithful in regards to gender either." She rolls her eyes. "What about you?"

Not Vicky shrugs.

"Not sure. I mean, I haven't had many interactions with women, but... Sexual behaviour doesn't equal sexual orientation."

"Indeed."

"So I am not sure. Gender is not the most important part. I prefer people who're smart. Sapiosexual might fit, I guess. Do you know the term?"

Tim smiles, shaking his head.

"No, haven't heard of it. But I know what _sapiens_ stands for, so..."

"Okay. It's basically attraction to intelligent people."

"Got it."

"But sometimes people say it isn't valid. What do you think?"

"Donno. I mean, it definitely doesn't apply to me. I gladly do beautiful and stupid. You know, my guitar jerking darling? Pretty as a flower, but dumb as fuck."

She quirks her lips.

"What?" Tim asks. "Boring? Or conservative?"

That's a very nice regiment you have there, Larry, I say and pause. He narrows his eyes at me, either confused or... I hope you don't mind it that I call you Larry, I ask him. He doesn't answer me at once. He then shakes his head. I smile. Perfect, I tell him. So, as I was saying... That's a very nice unit you have under your command in there, Larry. Do you think... Do you think I could touch it?

She pshaws, takes a swig, looking around the bar.

"No," she says, turning back to him. "It's just... Well, you sound kind of like an asshole. And I don't know... You might think it's radical honesty, but---"

"Oh, no. I mean, yeah, but I _am_ an asshole. And my bravado is probably just a defensive tactic to mask my insecurity. And by no means do I think that me saying that I am a jerk makes me less of a jerk. So..."

Not Vicky narrows his eyes at him, then at the label on the bottle, resettling her glasses once again.

"That's not a nice thing to say. What you said about your partner. He might not be the brightest person, but he's your partner. You should respect him. Like, do those guys even know what you're doing now? That you're here?"

 _And what am I doing_ , Tim wonders with a smile inwardly.

Jesus fucking Christ, Tim.

"And what am I doing?" he asks. "Like, potentially hitting on a young woman? Yeah. They do. Not precisely, obviously, but yeah. And they might be doing the same right now. Well, the not the brightest one. The drummer's shy. So yeah. Open relationships and shit."

She hums.

"I am an asshole, but not a cheating and a backward one." 

They are _brigades._

She shrugs.

"Doubting my thesis?"

She nods.

"A bit, yeah. Not about you personally, I don't really know you. But in general. I am not sure men being... promiscuous is to be seen as something progressive." Tim grins at the quote. He gladly does beautiful and stupid, but smart and cheeky is also a good combination. He isn't picky, after all. "Men expressing their sexuality freely wasn't something traditional societies looked down on. Unless it's gay sex, but then again, it's also tied up with taking a role that's usually prescribed to women."

"Huh. Maybe you're right. Donno. But it seems like there's no winning here for me, is there?"

"Well, nobody's fighting you. Or men in general. It's not a game or something. It's just the state of things. Or do you disagree?"

Tim hums.

"Not really, no. I get what you're hinting at. It does suck for some people more than it sucks for others. But I can't really attest to the female experience. And me personally... I'd say my sexuality has been liberated without much trouble. I've definitely seen much worse examples. What about you?"

Fuck. _Larry._ Fucking hell.

"Hm?"

"Did something suck for you?"

Not Vicky circles the rim of the beer bottle with her index finger.

"I don't think I should complain too much, because I haven't been assaulted or anything like that. I know girls who had it much worse. But just... everyday sexism. It's really annoying. How casual it is. And if we're talking about sex, then... Well, good sex ed is practically non existent and dating men when there're so many of them who don't know where the clit is... That sucks."

Larry. Fuck. That is a nice fucking cock you had there. 

Tim laughs, baring and then covering his teeth.

"I do," he says, waving his hand at her.

She raises her eyebrows at him.

"Hm?"

"Hungary," he says, voice determined. "Or Finland. One or the other, I'm sure. Definitely not Portugal."

She waves her hand at him too, laughing, not at the joke, turning away for a few seconds, taking a swig from her beer and taking god's name in vain.

"Sorry," Tim says, still grinning. "I'm a bit of a clown. But anyway, I do. If you have a piece of paper and a pen, I can even draw a scheme. I have a friend who's an artist, she did this feminist workshop or something a couple of times, teaching ladies and their partners to paint their pussies. And I sketched hers. So I have some useful skills."

Not Vicky worries her lips while he tells her of Jules's labia.

"That's..." she starts, voice thoughtful. "That's a nice idea. The workshop, I mean. But you..."

"Hm?"

"You know, most things you say kind of sound... somewhat disingenuous. Like everything is a laughing matter to you."

"That's because I am a clown. But no, I'm perfectly sincere."

She hums.

"You seemed sincere when you said your partners were away and you felt lonely. But now..."

"Hm. Well, I'm genuinely enjoying our discussion here. But if you want, I can tell you more about my desolation and depression. Or about my sweethearts. In a respectful manner."

She nods after a brief pause.

John.

Paul.

John-Paul.

John-Paul.

"Are you in a civil union or married? To either of them, I mean. Or are they? How does it work?"

"Nah," Tim shakes his head. "No paperwork's involved. Apart from... The drummer and I live together. Bought a house and so on. The guitar beauty isn't really interested in living with companions. Just in guitars. And cakes. And lipstick."

He smiles.

Not Vicky smiles too.

"How long have you been together?"

Tim shrugs. He's not the one who's interested in maths.

"Eight years, if I'm not mistaken. A bit less with the guitar beauty. He joined us a little later. He didn't like me much, you know. I'd even say he still doesn't."

Not Vicky frowns.

"That's... Are you serious?"

Tim quirks his lips.

"More or less. I mean, you don't really know me and already think that I sound like an asshole. That guy is absolutely sure. And he's right, so..."

Not Vicky frowns even more.

"It's... It sucks. How does _this_ work?"

Tim smiles.

"Magic, mostly. With me being a sly shit added on top, but whatever. It's not that bad. It's actually amazing. I fucking adore both of them. Like a complete idiot."

Her forehead relaxes, eyebrows rising again.

He smiles.

"See these peanuts? They're like the drummer's main flirting technique. If he likes you, you're going to become his pet squirrel. And I've munched a shit ton of them since they went away. I think I now run on them. Nuts and smokes."

He keeps smiling.

"And see my ornamented digits? This is the guitar beauty's nail polish I've stolen from him. And... Well, this is a bit more dirty, but I've been pretending these are his fingers in hours of utter desperation, even though my paws look nothing like his divine hands."

He bites his lips.

"I miss them like a lunatic. Don't know what to do with myself. I just sulk for hours. And then I go to nameless bars and start harassing chemistry postgrads with my lewd jokes. I'm hopeless. That's how much I adore them."

He picks up another peanut and then laughs.

"Jesus, I do sound boring. And conservative. God. I guess I am a married grandpa, Not Vi... Victoria."

Not Vicky laughs as well.

"No, it's fine. This is not what I meant by conservative."

He hums.

"Okay. Cool. So what about you? Boyfriends, girlfriends, partners, sweethearts?"

She bites her lips, shakes her head.

"Not at the moment," she says and finishes her beer. "I had a boyfriend last year. But nothing as... long lasting as what you've described. It was... Hm. It wasn't bad, but I don't think relationships are something I want to spend my time on now. Don't know if you get it."

Tim shrugs.

"I think, yeah. Like, you've got other projects?"

She hums.

"More or less. It got... domestic way too fast with him. And I am a bit more ambitious than that. So..."

Tim nods and chews on the last two peanuts.

There is a pause.

"Should I not buy you another beer?" he asks. "Or do you maybe want some rodent food?"

Not Vicky smiles, takes off her glasses, fixes her hair.

"No, thanks. I don't like beer much. Alcohol is not my drug of choice."

Tim chuckles.

"What is then?"

She puts her glasses on.

"Well... Drugs are?"

Tim hums, nodding.

"What exactly? I mean, I have something of a lucky charm when it comes to drugs. I can go mingle with the crowd or just visit the restroom and I'll return soon and with some pills."

She wrinkles her nose.

"What the crowd's having here is no good. Especially the pills."

"Okay. Acid?"

"You're old."

Tim laughs.

"True. But you know, _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_ and so on."

"That's just music. No. Not really my thing. Hm. I am also not sure I am in the mood for anything... immersive. Pot would be nice, I guess. If it's good. But there is no good pot here either."

Tim shakes his head and props his chin on his elbow.

Lucky charms, ha.

"My car's just around the corner."

Not Vicky narrows her eyes at him.

"I thought you weren't hitting on me."

"I wasn't. I was just offering you illegal substances. But okay. Fine. Now I am. Wanna go to my place and see the drum kit in the basement? Or to your place? Or just my car? Or the restroom? I might look decrepit, but everything's operational down there."

He gestures at his nether regions as she laughs at him.

And at his jokes - a little.

"The basement's tempting. But..."

"Yeah?"

The corner of her mouth quirks.

"I'm not very interested in penetrative sex."

"Oh. Okay. You aren't my kin, after all. Alright. I've got other body parts. Which are also eager and in working order."

He grins as she rolls her eyes at his vulgar lip movement.

"Not a big fan of cunnilingus either."

"Damn. I see. Are you a fan of... equipment? I'm willing to provide it. Unless you buy your own little rabbits too."

That is not a miss.

"Hm. Do you also keep vibrators in your basement?"

Tim laughs. 

"Not yet. But I most definitely can start to. And I can go start the car. And we can buy all the good pot and all the love wands. Or just the pot. Or just the wands. I'm amenable. Oh, and I cook like a god.---

butter

white wine vinegar

shallot

black pepper

bay

yolks

salt, sugar

\---Come on." _Win your own asshole_. "Have pity on the old man."

Not Vicky sizes him up again, tapping her fingers on the empty beer bottle, and figures that he's not a useless purchase.

Or that he's her fairy prince.

One or the other.

"Okay. Alright. Yeah. Let's go smoke some pot. But..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I see your driver's lisence?"

  
And then, on this night of innuendo, Tim tells Not Vicky that originally it is the infamous sj-sound that is a menace to everybody apart from people who have been enjoying obligatory sex ed since 1955, which by the way they have, while she sends texts with his personal information to two of her friends in case he is not just an obnoxious asshole, but a mentally disordered cannibal, which by the way he...

Well.

  
And then, after some driving, Tim buys the pot from a group of young ladies and gentlemen who they visit at their house and pays for it, because Not Vicky says he should, because she doesn't have to, since these young people are friends from her lab, but he is a different story and he's going to be smoking it too anyway.

Then Tim gives Not Vicky a tour of his bizarre house once they arrive there, showing her his pagan lunatic and his deranged asshole rooms, his vast spices collection and Ginger's drum kit, throwing his arms wide open in surrender when she sees the hard copy of _Sex and Character_ he's been perusing to later have drunk discussions with Brian who's agreed to suffer through Wittgenstein as a part of the deal the've struck to cheer Tim up, the book lying there on the couch as further evidence of his misogyny, Tim saying he's actually reading it for the Nazi bits, Not Vicky shaking her head at him and following him into the bedroom to combust the weed.

Then Tim lies on the floor as a victim of wiccan androcide or maybe a spinning merry-go-round or medieval chrysopoeia, who fucking knows, and tries to say _seven, soul, star_ and _shoot_ in the language he, it seems, no longer speaks, Not Vicky observing the spectacle of his phonetic failure from above, her laughter cutting through the white fog he's dissolving in.

"What is this shit?" he asks her, once human form and the ability to interact verbally temporarily return to him. "Please, give me more."

Then Not Vicky tells him all about her friend Not Becky who is a botanist, and Tim's left pondering what kind of a part-time job the lady guarding his wasted body has.

Then they laugh their asses off together, listening to his first solo record, once Not Vicky hands more of the shit he has requested to him and illegal substances reach their brains.

Then Tim enters the kitchen, crawling, and opens the fridge, wobbling, and rests on the floor, shaking, while Not Vicky stews the cuts of meat he for some reason stores in the freezer in ridiculous amounts, using his personal cookbook for guidance, because he himself can't give any and They Are Hungry.

Then Tim assures Not Vicky she can rob him of everything she sees here or start an arson or bash his stoned skull in, because he adores her and respects her and her evil genuis, and Not Vicky covers him with blankets and tucks him in.

Then Tim sleeps, and his new best friend sleeps next to him.

  
In the morning, since it is Sunday and nobody needs to be present anywhere, Tim leaves Not Vicky to surf the internet on his computer, wearing one of Ginger's old wifebeaters and John's lacy underwear Tim has a collection of, and drives to the sex shop, calling her from there and dictating her the vendor codes of oscillating cocks they're selling, so that she chooses the one she certainly approves of after reading the reviews online, inquiring if she thinks that size matters and soliciting consent to procuring something substantial, because she might not care, but he and his loose ass definitely do, being the biggest admirers of penetration in the state.

He ends up coming back home with an absolute monster made of transparent polyvinyl chloride tinted golden he clenches around like a highly entertaining and passionately liberal motherfucker, wriggling on it and straining his old bones, knees bent, hands tearing the sheets into pieces, while Not Vicky holds it at the base, watching him jumping on it, combatting the centrifugal force and sweaty, incoherently asking her to punch him in the face and coming in absolute shock and in absolute delight, because what Not Vicky slaps his snout with is one of Ginger's slippers she's put on after taking a shower and That Seriously Stings. Not Vicky herself gets a taste of the rotary beast a bit later, after Tim swears on his hard copy of Malleus Maleficarum that he won't be pressing charges and he and his bruised trap are the biggest admirers of violence in the whole country. The contract signed and the condom stained with his filth and lube removed, she undresses, pressing the golden monster to her pussy Tim later studies in detail and going dead silent, requesting he hold his tongue as well, because orgasms require concentration, and he obliges, but only in regards to words, of course, everything else not at all forbidden. Tim busies his bruised trap with exploration of her body, learning of her neck he licks and of her nipples he pinches with his teeth and of her ribs and stomach and hip bones she introduces him to and of her long legs going tense around his shoulders and her narrow feet breaking his back and of her determined hand in his blond scum hair and of her delicious juices that run onto his face, lips and tongue as Not Vicky comes, his mouth on her, covering the golden cock.

Tim cooks dinner, following the recipe Not Vicky finds in his personal cookbook, and they eat, while he shows her a shit ton of pictures, photos his guitar beauty's taken of the shy drummer and of himself, skipping the more explicit images the sparkly whiny jerk has sent to taunt him and the ones he himself told the main victim of his cannibalism to take, because Not Vicky says they haven't given their permission to admire their private parts to this chemistry postgrad, and twenty four hours after they first meet she leaves his house in a taxi, Tim hugging her, her new best friend. 

Then Tim does a bit of cleaning and a bit of music.

Then he writes a long ass letter full of allegories about the heroic deeds he's been performing to earn a favor of a noble lady he's going to be a servant of from now on and sends it to his distant sweethearts, ogling their stupid happy faces till it's dawn and he starts seeing them in his weird dreams.

  
The next Sunday Tim and Not Vicky chill out naked on the bed, yawning and smoking, Tim lying on the pile of pillows with his legs spread wide, Not Vicky conducting purely unscientific research of his asshole which she fucked on Saturday, after Tim asked her if Virginia Woolf hadn't indeed said that every woman had to have a strap-on of her own or something like it and took a quick drive to the sex shop to buy a harness and took a pill the chemist postgrad with a part-time job put on his tongue and on the piece of paper as a formula he didn't understand and danced with her for what seemed like either fractions of a second or years and years to some trip hop records she brought with her and developed a massive boner along with the penetration itch thanks both to the dancing and to the fucking pill whose composition he kept wondering about and undressed, lubed and stretched himself, got on his hands and knees and asked her to go full blown Valkyrie on him. 

Which she did.

Which piqued her academic curiosity.

So now, on this Sunday morning of mild hangover and ridiculously late breakfast, she's rubbing at his hole and musing, first silently, then asking him a question about his anal health, Tim saying he has a whole team of doctors to consult in regards to the disaster she's sliding her index finger into and they all agree it is disgusting, but perfectly fine and functional despite everything he's done and still doing to it, Not Vicky humming, displaying interest in history, Tim telling her tales of double penetration that's been obligatory since late 2002 and was already common before that, Not Vicky pondering out loud about the benefits of rectum related sexual activities, Tim sharing some of his motivations with her, both radioactive and benign, Not Vicky persisting in her search for knowledge and experience, Tim getting ingenious ideas, Not Vicky saying her hands are kind of big, Tim sneering and asserting that one will fit and easily, though he's still in doubt about two, but with enough lube and recklessness...

Having gallons of glide is also compulsory when being a horny pick up grandpa with two sweethearts, so there is definitely enough of that, but Not Vicky is a sensible young lady, so it is only one fist of hers that breaches him after he shakes his sloth off and runs into the bathroom and puts a blue bulb syringe up his ass and a black glove on her hand, and that is also sufficient and even generates more sticky liquid to be found around the house, his come he absent-mindedly smears over his stomach after a bone shattering mind blowing orgasm Not Vicky gives him and his whole body too, his whole body that turns into a shark jelly at her measured touch, Tim shuddering in front of her, teeth gritted and eyes wet, Not Vicky also enjoying elevated levels of humidity and contractions at the sight, looking positively intrigued. 

Years and years later Tim finally makes breakfast.

He does some work. She takes notes on the paper she's reading. They order take out. They watch a movie. He smokes and chats with her, while she takes a shower.

At around seven they start with her experiment, and Tim is diligent, Tim learns of her back he gently rubs and kisses and of her messy partial ponytail tickling his nose and of her cheeks he presses his cheek to, drawing lines down her long legs, going as far as he can reach, and of another angle he can observe her pussy from to memorize all the specifics for the exam and of her ass he's currently dragging his tongue over, working it open slowly, licking both at her and at his own lips, Not Vicky humming almost like he himself purred back when she was catering to his loose hole, arching, a pillow under her stomach and the golden cock trapped between her legs, whirring peacefully at the most tranquil setting they could find, vibrating, similar to the way Not Vicky's ass and pussy start pulsing when she orgasms, her hole clenching around two of his fingers he's slipped in with enough lube and Not Vicky's sanction, her other hole she's not interested in having penetrated clenching too, Not Vicky coming thanks to his and their sex shop bought pal's labor, pouring him a drink he's very fond of as she rises to crescendo, Tim swallowing all of it and licking the glass it has been served to him in clean as well, Not Vicky lifting her hips off the pillow as endorsement, Tim feeling positively content with the results they see after the first test, the head of the research concurring.

  
The Sunday after that... 

Another Saturday happens before it and on that Saturday Tim sucks the golden monster fixed by the harness on Not Vicky's hips, and on the Saturday that occured just a week earlier he engaged in fellatio as well, after Not Vicky fucked him and went full blown Valkyrie on him, he held the buzzing log pressed to her clit and Not Vicky moved, rubbing herself on it, and his other hand was on her left breast and hers was on the right, both busy with nipple tuning, and the fingers of her left hand were sliding in and out of his mouth, not only on their own, he made some oral efforts too, and none of his actions were considered dull. 

But on the Saturday that precedes the very special Sunday...

Thursday occurs first.

On Thursday Tim calls Not Vicky and says he's going to die alone of acute heart failure, because his darlings, who previously stated they would be home on Friday, are delayed, the guitar beauty for another week, the shy drummer who he threatened with all sorts of torture demanding he return right away for a few days, who knows exactly how many, which is especially offensive, because he isn't obsessed with playing every venue in the world and it's not really his decision, there're just fuck ups that led to this catastrophe that simply forces Tim to bother her, imploring her to stay with him while he's throwing teary tantrums, because he won't survive this on his own. 

Maybe in less exalted terms.

Not Vicky comes on Friday, in the evening, the young lady has a life and, actually, so does he, he's been turning the knobs the whole day and giving lectures on keeping the fucking tempo and she's been listening to lectures he wouldn't comprehend and turning pages of the books with formulas that look like stuff of nightmares to him. 

Not Vicky comes on Friday and they hang out on the couch, bitching about life and smoking, Tim demonstrating to her how to pronounce _skit_ , Not Vicky tutoring him on rhyming all the derivatives of phenethylamine, and it is already past midnight, the early hours of Saturday, when Tim sinks on his knees between her long legs, Not Vicky adorned with the harness and the golden cock Tim takes in his mouth after instructing her not to push too hard, because he simply can't stand vomiting and he might if this baton gets deep enough, and urging her to show him no compassion when acquainting his mug with Ginger's slipper once again, because this he loves and getting punched's his specialty. 

It is on Saturday before the very special Sunday that Not Vicky fucks and slaps Tim's face while he jerks off and growls, fucks and slaps him until all his aches and sorrows are kicked out of him, until he comes, staring up at her with a grimace of glee, a spectacle of broad-minded cock sucking that isn't tedious at all, a spectacle she happily directs.

It is still Saturday when Tim rests his empty, yet infinitely heavy head on Not Vicky's galvanized thigh, catching his breath and wasting it on raspy swearing and then using it more wisely, avowing that she can rob him of his tongue or start him on a handicraft endeavour or bash his skull in if that would please her, claiming he's more than ready to continue and he is, because getting face fucked once is only a half of what he originally expected to go through this weekend. 

Not Vicky employs all the offered body parts of his, throwing her long legs over the arms of the chair and pushing her hips up, her clit getting acquainted with the golden monster once again, Tim's hands slipped under her butt and helpful, Tim's tongue stuck in her pussy and not to no profit either, Tim's skull bashed in by Not Vicky's hand that doesn't hold the cock, that holds him, fingers with silver rings curling in his hair as she comes, his tongue consumed by flavor of the liquids he's consuming, his hands steadying Not Vicky's wriggling frame, saving both of them from flopping entirely ungracefully onto the floor.

It is still Saturday when they wake up and Tim sulks for hours, provoked by the call he gets that's not from Ginger when he thinks it is, running to pick up the phone and almost jumping and then snarling out sj-sounds as he's being told of special offers by an employee of a bank he himself isn't even a client of, and then devastated even more by somebody who isn't Ginger ringing the doorbell, confusing his crazy house with a residence of one James Brown, Tim almost jumping the poor fucker and then throwing a teary tantrum right in the corridor, sobbing out sj-sounds as he rolls on the floor, Not Vicky towering above him, berating him and leaving, for about an hour or two, and coming back with something she and her friends created in their lab as a part of their part-time job.

Then Tim freaks out.

Then Tim refuses doing drugs.

Then Not Vicky calls him a pussy, tying a string of leather around his arm and telling him that if he's going to act up she'll also tie him to the chair he's sitting on and do it anyway, and Tim asks if he can have the chair without the needles, Not Vicky denying his request, Tim saying he'll be pressing charges, Not Vicky sighing and rolling her eyes, _I know what I'm doing_ , she says, and Tim's not with her on that, _nothing's gonna happen to you_ , she says, and Tim thinks that she just doesn't know what his little elves are like, _I mean, you might throw up, but that's it_ , she adds, and Tim screams, sprinting around the room and tearing out his stupid blond scum hair, begging all the higher powers to stop the blood circulation in his body and demanding to know why Not Vicky hadn't told him about the side effects before she shot fuck knows what into his maiden veins.

"It's not fuck knows what," she says, showing him the piece of paper with the formula. "It's eleven carbon atoms bonded with fifteen hydrogen atoms bonded with---"

"I'M A MUSICIAN, I DON'T KNOW WHAT FUCKING CARBON IS!" Tim shouts, interrupting her, tearing out his stupid prematurely grey scum hair and flopping hopelessly onto his knees.

He's definitely overreacting.

But then again, something is happening to him. 

He can feel it. Like, right now. Now. Something is certainly happening to him. Right this second. Yes. Now. Now?

  
Some seconds later atoms engaged in a bondage orgy hit him.

  
The same tiny degenerates reach Not Vicky's brain a little later, because she only ties a leather string around her arm when euphoria makes Tim stand in front of the black TV screen with a wide open mouth and dilated pupils, stunned, once in a while turning to Not Vicky to inform her of his discovery.

"I'm _super hot_ ," he says at least fourteen billion times.

  
Then he gives himself a tour of his own deeply meaningful house, every item he picks up both a work of genius and super hot, and he himself is even more intelligent and talented than the inventor of the shiny discs with holes right in the center which fit perfectly - _perfectly_ \- around his index finger, and he himself is infinitely more sexually attractive than the thick rectangular parallelepipeds made of sheets with words and pictures on them Not Vicky keeps perusing, he surely is and so is she, both of them are super hot.

Everything's super hot, and throwing up is no exception.

Throwing up gives him a boner.

"Victoria, I've got a massive vomit boner," Tim announces, exiting his sexy bathroom after spending an eternity in there bent over his sexy tub, expelling, but kind of slowly and softly, nice and sexy, warm and fuzzy, like his bile is made of tender loving goo that licks at his esophagus and hugs him from the inside as he retches rhythmically to the beat he'll show to John the moment he arrives and then John'll compose the tune and they'll be famous and also super hot on stage and also mind-blowing, like, full of suggestion and ethereal, they'll elevate the crowd spiritually and all the super hot people it consists of will fuck them and they'll die in a giant orgy and go to heaven and it is already heaven, so why does he even need to move, it's heaven, retching here on the floor, one hand pressed into his stiff cock, another pulling his mouth open, adoring bile caressing his fingers as it runs out, kind of like when the giant squid sucks them, but the opposite, like there're tentacles inside him and they tremble there, but on purpose, tantalizing him, erotic, like there is this big, hot, slick cock inside him fucking his intestines and his stomach, sliding up and down, stretching him and perfect, like, actually, like there're many cocks and the owners of them are coming, but like out of him, and Jesus fucking Christ will you stop, you stupid narcomaniac?

"Victoria, I've got a massive vomit boner," Tim announces, exiting his sexy bathroom after spending an eternity in there bent over his sexy tub, expelling his guts out in a positively self seductive fashion, mesmerized, after they, before he runs there, having said _oh shit_ and _I'm gonna throw up_ , after they, him and Not Vicky, listen to the single he composed prior to meeting her, having collected forks and grocery receipts around the house and having used them the way their inventors had not intended for them to be used, back when he didn't know what to do with himself and created this... whatever it is they're listening to together with Not Vicky, this... magnum opus that speaks directly to their souls and kind of moves them and reduces Tim to tears, this hymn that makes both their hearts flutter, makes their blood run faster, rushes them to their triumphs, this ballad about feelings that are so deep there aren't names for them yet, about love so profound it must be divine, just like Not Vicky's wide silver rings are, the rings Tim's taking off her fingers and trying to poke his own into them, her super sexy silver rings he's taking off her super sexy fingers that take his breath away and kind of grip his viscera, holding them and tugging at them, kind of like engulfing both his stomach and his chest, his diaphragm, constricting, pulling, kind of li... oh shit. He's gonna throw up.

"Victoria, I've got a massive vomit boner," Tim says after he throws up, sitting down next to Not Vicky, his pants unzipped, Tim showing his aching evidence to her. "It's amazing. It's like... I've never felt anything like that before. You know. Like there is..." There is stinky bile all over his hands and face. "Like algae. Like dispersion. Inside. Right here, you know." He grabs Not Vicky's super hot hand and puts it on his heaving chest, his nuclear reactor jumping out of it. "See? Absorption."

"Adsorption," Not Vicky corrects him, soothing his jerky warhead, and okay, that is her area, so Tim nods.

"Uh-huh. Like... Fuck. Sea sponge, you know. In my stomach. Like, fucking it. But like out of me. So soft, you know. And spreading. With tendrils. Like someone's blowing my esophagus. And hugging it. Inside. Right here."

As he attempts to put Not Vicky's hand on his heaving chest again, despite it already being there, she lifts her other one and wraps it around his cock.

"Oh," Tim exhales. She slides it up and down. "Oh fuck."

  
Around the year one thousand two hundred sixty two Not Vicky also pushes her fingers into his babbling mouth and fucks it, while squashing his massive vomit boner.

  
Around the year one thousand eight hundred sixty one Tim finally stops sucking on her fingers like a lunatic, while pushing in her palm with his massive vomit boner.

  
But not because he comes.

  
Around the year one hundred thirty three BC Tim gets buried in Not Vicky's pussy as if he lives in ancient Rome.

  
Around the year whatever Tim rubs at the corner of the kitchen table with his rock hard cock, admiring his vast collection of the spices. Which are super hot.

  
Around the year still whatever Not Vicky bites his head off, hissing _how many times do I have to tell you, I don't like it_ in his ear, and then Tim gets fucked, because he does like it, but he's not sure what it is he gets fucked with.

With whatever, probably.

  
He still won't come.

  
It's like he's always on the verge of orgasming, relief is right around the corner of that kitchen table he has screwed, but it never comes, he never comes, it's like that path the virgin huntress cannot walk, because it's one, one half, one quarter, then one eighth, one sixteenth and then you're fucked, which is also no help, because that is an infinity. 

"That is just a side effect," Not Vicky tells him, laughing, _but now you can attest to the female experience_ , she tells him, and he draws an infinite number of vulvas to deal with his frustration, so now there is a pussy in his Sex and Character, a pussy in his Hammer of the Witches, a pussy in Not Vicky's textbook, a pussy in his cookbook, a pussy on the sheet of paper with the formula he doesn't understand and he's sitting in the middle of the pussy pentagram and meditating and there is still a fucking lingam between his legs that proves that goddesses are real.

And they are real, because one of them covers his spaced out body with the blankets and tucks him in.

"No, I live with some friends of mine," the goddess says. "We rent a house together."

"Oh," he says. "Really? And what about the palace of your own located on the top of the mountain no mortal can climb without being cursed?"

"It's too expensive," the goddess says, and the philosopher touches his beard thoughtfully.

"Please, forgive me," he says. "I only know that I know nothing."

  
"No, it's mostly lectures, actually," the goddess says. "There isn't much action when doing research. It's more about reading and taking notes."

"Oh," he says. "Really? Don't you run through meadows and forests accompanied by nymphs and does?"

"The facilities aren't very suitable for that," the goddess says, and the philosopher looks at the wondrous fumes she breathes out forming into enigmatic symbols. "I mean, the lab I work at is better than the one we have at the university."

"Please, forgive me," he says. "It is too easy to give advice to others. Yet it is difficult to know yourself."

  
"No, we met at the bar," the goddess says. "And I have to say, I almost bit his head off for no reason."

"Oh," he says. "Really? But didn't he like chase you all around Ellada and even on your own sacred island in a highly questionable and rapey fashion like a predatory oceanic bastard that he is?"

"He's a clown," the goddess laughs, and the philosopher offers her a handful of nuts like she's his squirrel. "But he's sweet. Rude, but sweet. You know, he missed you so much."

"Oh," he says. "I tried calling yesterday, but he wouldn't pick up, so I thought maybe he is like... pissed at---"

"Pissed," Tim says, interrupting the introductory chitchat and groaning, flipping over with his dry mouth full of diarrhea and his face half chewed by the pillow. "Period."

Ginger is sitting next to Not Vicky on the bed, Not Vicky wearing Ginger's old wifebeater, Ginger pale and wrinkled.

And fucking hairy.

"Oh," he says with a faint smile. "Hi."

"Uh-huh," Tim grits out, trying to grab at him. "Come here, you furry moron. I'll spit the horse shit into your mouth."

Which he does. 

Not on purpose.

It's just they kiss and the horse shit gallops out of his trap onto Ginger's tender loving tongue.

"You're gonna shave," Tim informs him, once they part.

"Okay," Ginger breathes out, his tender loving tentacles already on Tim. "You---

"Shhh," Tim says, pressing a finger over his lips and turning to the goddess who's about to fly up to the skies. "Artemis, where are you going? Come here." He pats the mattress, gesturing Not Vicky to get back to bed. "I need you. And the smokes." Not Vicky laughs and sits down next to him. And lies down, when he nudges her. And gives him the cigarettes. "And you," he turns to Ginger, lighting one up and falling back onto the pillow. "Undress."

"Uh," Ginger starts, hesitating, glancing at Not Vicky as if Tim's unaware his best friend is here, his goddess who saved him from acute heart failure while his sweetheart was turning into a fucking mop. "Tim."

"Take off your damn clothes and get in bed," Tim insists, puffing out the smoke, and Not Vicky eyes him intently, just sighing in the end, because he's just too old to change, he's boring and conservative and she'll simply have to turn him into a wild boar. Or send one after him. Or throw a dead boar's head at him. Something like it.

"Tim, I uh..." Ginger goes on, his scared fingers fiddling with the top button of his shirt.

"Shut up. Do what I said," Tim snarls, baring his teeth at him. "I'm wasted. You're ruined. Artemis here is our guest. Get in the fucking bed and we will sleep. I know you like her. I know you gave her peanuts. So stop playing shy. We're gonna have a threesome when we wake up anyway."

  
Where are the men that came in to thee this night? 

  
They have a threesome when they wake up.

  
Obviously, not right away.

They have to fall asleep before they attempt waking up, and even earlier than that Not Vicky tells Ginger, who is blushing, that she can look away, and Tim snorts, remembering those pictures he still showed to her after some coercion and debate. Ginger, nevertheless, agrees, and what is funny is that Not Vicky ends up not only looking directly at him, as he undresses, but also helping him, because it takes forever and she might be a bit less rude than Tim, but she's wasted too, all three of them need to fucking sleep, and then Tim pulls her closer, pulls Ginger closer too, completely naked and with a half hard cock that pokes Tim's thigh, and it feels great, kind of like it felt when he was vomiting bent over the tub while hydrogen was tying carbon up, but on the outside, it feels like he's floating there, surrounded by severed limbs, and then he is, because his dreams have always been bizarre.

Then they wake up.

Then there is smoking, kissing, taking leaks, waving Ginger and his fountain of questions away, more kissing, because he won't shut up, more smoking, because why not, there is making breakfast standing there naked in the kitchen, because Ginger refuses to walk around in anything less than a fucking suit and Tim has to provide some counterbalance, there is a bit of culinary praise that is deserved, a lot of talking that's unwarranted about subjects that are immaterial, there're threats and shaving, because Tim said Ginger'd shave, there is Not Vicky's helping hand that holds the razor, Tim's head tilted, Tim trying to see the reaction to that between Ginger's legs, there is his obnoxious laughter and his taunting, _oh, is that a new kink getting roaring hard in there or are you just happy I'm in the room with you_ \- there's Tim saying that, there is pushing, swearing, there is some banging on the drum kit in the basement performed by Ginger for Not Vicky's entertainment and then by her as well, there're Ginger's fingers that hesitate to touch her as he gives advice on how to kick the pedal, there's smoke and smirks, because Tim is there with them, and because Tim's there with them - and stark naked, mind you - they have a threesome, because were he not there, there would be only two of them, and two doesn't equal three.

  
Bring them out unto us, that we may know them

  
They have a gorgeous threesome when they wake up. 

  
There is part one, where Not Vicky mostly watches, observing Tim's overt and even blatant inclination to be fucked, Tim penetrated through his own efforts on Ginger's cock, pushing his hips back, head dangling on his shoulder, muscles strained, Ginger holding him and dead, breathless behind him, his palms abhorrently tender on Tim's chest, his face Not Vicky looks at no doubt blazing, his moans they listen to speaking directly to their genitals, Not Vicky wet, Tim leaking, Not Vicky's hand catching and squeezing his bouncing cock, Not Vicky's fingers in his mouth, her mouth on Ginger's, Not Vicky kisses him over Tim's shoulder as Tim comes after she slaps him a few times and Ginger gasps in shock, learning what his virtuous slippers have been used for.

There is part two, where Ginger gasps once again, Tim having finished coming - like a motherfucker, by the way - and pushing him to lie down on the bed like a log with a big hot branch up in the air, and lowering himself on it with a snarl and with such speed Not Vicky expresses her concerns about his anal - and mental - health again, Tim asking her if she's just called him an insane whore and chuckling, Not Vicky calling him a clown and lying down next to Ginger and kissing him and his stubble as he suffers Tim's frantic jumping on him, Tim grabs her hands and puts them on Ginger's nipples, Not Vicky saying _oh_ and finding this panicking old pervert even less uninspiring and reactionary than Tim is as he comes in Tim's ass, Not Vicky's fingers with silver rings on him, Ginger's own fingers crushed by Tim who holds them, holds both his hands, not letting him cover his feverish unhidden face Tim has a feeling Not Vicky has an interest in sitting on, Not Vicky looking at his pathetic features that are also quite an amusing spectacle for Tim despite Tim having aleady seen it in the year one hundred thirty three BC and many, many times since then.

There is grand final, where Tim shifts behind the curtain of Not Vicky's hair Ginger helps her to dye purple later, snout buried in it, chest pressed flat to her back, hands on her breasts, fingers with nails painted in her nail polish on her nipples, Not Vicky's head on his shoulder, Ginger's head between her thighs, Not Vicky holding it, her fingers in the curtain of his hair, holding the golden monster Tim introduces to Ginger as James Brown, pressing it to her clit and rocking her hips, Ginger's tongue sliding up and down her pussy Tim shows him multiple drawings of while Ginger goes as red as her hair he is brushing was before he dyed it, Ginger's tender tongue savoring her juices and contractions as she comes, Ginger moaning, Not Vicky swearing, Tim developing a massive toothy sneer of a mentally disorderded cannibal he doesn't even try to disguise as something harmless, Tim's chest purring blissfully when he sees Ginger's wet, fucked up, stupid happy face Not Vicky's touching as he looks up at Tim.

  
Ginger looks up at Tim, freaking out.

"You can't refuse," Tim says, looming over him. "You don't know what _no_ means."

Ginger says _Tim._

"I'll tie you to a chair and do it anyway," Tim says. "You can be sure of that. You'll fucking let me."

Ginger says _fuck, Tim._

"Nothing's gonna happen to you," Tim says. "It's Not Vicky's best shit. She's a chemistry postgrad. She knows what she's doing."

Ginger says that Not Vicky isn't called Not Vicky. That she's not called Vicky, that is. That she's Victoria and this is disrespectful.

"Nah, it's not," Tim says. "She said it's fine if I eat her out when she's on her period and I will in a few days."

Ginger goes red like... Well.

"What _is_ disrespectful, though," Tim goes on. "Is you being so difficult in here. Come on. This is her part-time job. We must help a young lady earn her living."

Ginger laughs, soft and shy, and asks what Not Vicky's best shit even is.

"It's a football team of carbon having sex with a choir of hydrogen with a couple of bystanders thrown in," Tim explains.

Ginger wonders if Tim actually knows what carbon is, and Tim looks positively offended.

"Of course I do," Tim says. "It's the second most abundant element in idiots like you and jerks like me. It's what our life you're making hard is made of."

Tim's done some reading, hasn't he.

Ginger does some more worrying.

"Come on," Tim says. "So many people wouldn't become addicts if drugs were bad for you. Isn't that what Voltaire said?"

Ginger laughs again.

That reading they have done together.

"Come on," Tim says. "I need a partner for this crime. I need your help to welcome that guitar traitor properly."

That recipe is Tim's, but Ginger was around and gave his aid, when Tim was cooking, so the cake awaiting John is really, really ugly. It's so ugly it is unbelievable.

"Come on," Tim says. "You have to. Today's my birthday."

Today's the 8th of May, but so what.

"Come on," Tim says. "Haven't you always wanted to fuck me while I vomit? Now's your chance."

Ginger laughs, shaking his head and blushing, looking at what he's freaking out about one more time, ready to surrender.

"Come on, squid," Tim says, sitting down next to him. "It'll be cool. Everything will look like I do to you and you will love it like you do me. Let's do it. Let's do another stupid thing together. Isn't that what we do? It'll be fine. I won't accidently kill you." He presses his lips to Ginger's ear, whispering. "I've got other plans for you. I've fucking missed you, Ginger. I missed you so, so much. I sulked for hours. I threw an actual teary tantrum. I rolled on the fucking floor, okay? I felt like shit. I always do without you. And this... Fuck, I don't even know, Ginj. It felt... Like something I've never felt before. And won't again, because Not Vicky won't sell it to me again since I am apparently obsessive and at risk." He chuckles. "Anyway. It felt amazing. And I want to do it with you too. Alright? I simply fucking want us to feel like that together." He feels Ginger's breath hitch, pulse stutter. "And to fuck every orifice of mine on that massive shark boner you will instantly develop, of course. For hours. But you know, that's nothing new."

  
"Come on," Tim says, kissing Ginger's wrist. "Please."

  
Tim kisses Ginger's wrist and Ginger's arm he gives him, moving higher, up and up, until he reaches the spot he needs, glancing at him, smirking, and Ginger smiles, Ginger nods, and Tim gets up, grabbing at Not Vicky's best shit, almost jumping and clapping his hands.

John does nothing of the sort when he finds both of them in the morning, lying there on the floor, in the middle of a pentagram - a CD of his own album, his unbelievably ugly cake, an empty syringe tucked into an ashtray overcrowded with smoke butts, a pool of Tim's puke and a picture of Ginger's cock, he finds them lying on the floor, wasted and fucked out, naked, hugging, every orifice of Tim's red and swollen, Ginger's cock adorned in smudged black imprints of Tim's lipstick wearing lips, he finds them being a central piece of Tim's salutatory arrangement Tim has carefully designed for him to avenge his lonely suffering, John finds them in the morning and berates them, calling them fucking junkies, as Ginger tries to apologize for his shameful state and Tim laughs in his pretty face, John returns and finds them in the morning and lies down next to them, kicking the ashtray with his feet, sending it to chill out in Tim's puke, checking out Tim's avant garde depiction of the sacred phallus, stuffing his mouth with Tim's monstrous cake sliced into thick pieces with the CD of his own album, and just like when atoms engaged in a bondage orgy hit Ginger, Ginger's soft warm lips parting in a gasp, eyes black and wide, Tim pulling the band off his own arm and falling right beside him, holding his tentacle and gulping down his blessed out surprise, waiting for his own to overtake him any second, right about now, now, now, _fuuuuck_ , just like Tim looked at Ginger's super hot spaced out face he missed so much Tim looks at John's, tasting his delight as John buries himself in fluffy cream that Ginger wipes off his fucking eyebrows, Tim looks and looks and looks until it's the year end of the world, and just like when Tim stood on all fours, Ginger's sweaty weight on top of him, Ginger inside him and outside him, in his hole and in his contracting stomach, in his fucking veins, just like when Tim threw up and then again, again, again, gulping down Ginger's juice made of grass to repeat the wonderful experience, when Tim retched on the floor as Ginger fucked him, soft and slow, warm and fuzzy, when Tim floated in the tender loving goo that licked at every particle of him, just like Tim felt back then Tim feels now, hugging John with Ginger, tight, dirty, tired, close, Tim hugs John side by side with Ginger and Tim feels like he has never ever felt before, like he will never ever feel again, like there is no past and there is no future, like there're just moments, euphoric, wondrous moments just like this one, just these blissful fractions of a second that happened to him fourteen billion times, just these blissful fractions of his carbon-based lifespan when he exists.

When he is whole.


	28. Good Samaritan

  
One day John finds the fleshjack.

One day John finds the fleshjack in Tim's pagan temple room left there under the blind gaze of the Roman goddess of luck.

One day Tim sits in the chair, smoking, and stares with unseeing eyes at the slow torture going on on the bed, and he must admit it is quite an inventive one.

Presently he said "Oh dear! I am quarter gone!"

One day John finds the fleshjack, and then, very soon, Ginger is naked on the bed, arching, fucking up into it, legs shaking, feet on the mattress, moaning so pathetically and no doubt feeling so ridiculous Tim's teeth ache. One day John finds the fleshjack and then, very soon, the marble of his pretty face shatters, exposing the demon living underneath, and he's holding it above Ginger's naked body, sitting between his shaking legs, telling him to fuck into it from the most uncomfortable angle and staring at him, at how Ginger's following his orders, and were Tim not the one who's dragged him down to the pit of hell, he would be scared of the fallen angel's visible reaction to obedience, and that reaction floods the room, it's hot and burning. And Ginger - well, there is also a buttplug in his ass, so he's going to start sobbing, it's mere seconds till he starts. And Tim - okay, Tim would've loved to be the victim of the wrath of heaven, he would've loved to be the one arching on the bed, though it's not the overstimulation itself he's most fond of, it's the fact that he, were it him there, would be in the end denied, it's being given nothing that he gets off on, but he isn't Ginger. He isn't Ginger, but Ginger is forever trapped inside him, Tim has his fingers in his brain made of pink goo and misery and nonsense, so Tim knows Ginger'd prefer to die than to be touched like that, to be exposed and caressed, dying would be easier for him than this, Tim knows that, Tim can feel it. 

It's so sharp his nuclear disaster is about to undergo a heart attack.

And John... Tim was John. Tim was much worse than that, but, fuck, the bastard's talented. And patient. That - that's always been a clink in Tim's metal armor, it's one, two, three and bang for him, skull overheated, chest in pieces, heartless hands committing crimes, teeth so deep in his prey his whole muzzle is inside it, but John is not like that. Slow, tenacious fucking bastard. Tim would've long lost all control of himself were he John right now, but he isn't John and John isn't him, John's so patient and all of it is so slow that John's in trance.

And Tim's in trance with him.

Tim's sitting in the chair smoking, but in reality he's on the bed with both of them. In both of them. Around both of them.

Tim's them.

And they are going to be the end of him. As always.

  
So one day Tim watches John and Ginger engaged in slow meat consumption on the bed, sitting in the chair, smoking, and Ginger's a sweaty pile of shaking limbs arching on the mattress, face half-buried in the pillow, the pillow catching flames off his blazing cheeks, off John's lava gradually flooding the room, and John's a picture of perfect beauty above him, holding his position for millenia, and his face is... Tim's seen his true face many times already, but when the ugly creature came for him it was more like _I've come to obliterate you, now bow_ , which is no surprise, and now, with Ginger, it is more of a surprise, it's _I've been sent for you and you are, what even are you, and what do I do now, what am I doing to you_ , so John's transfixed.

John's unwrapped the gift Tim carefully crafted and put under the Christmas tree for him.

Tim's in agony.

And then, "Oh, I am half gone!" 

He listens to Ginger moaning out John's name, lifting his hips and falling back down on the mattress, losing the rhythm in his shudders, the faster motions terminated by John's hand, by brief, commanding touches of John's fingers he brushes over Ginger's stomach, he listens to Ginger sobbing, begging John not to stop doing what is killing him, begging John to hurt him more if he so wants, and John fucking wants. Tim sees how much John wants, Tim sees what it is John wants, he stares at it, at what it does to John, at his dazed face, at his teeth sunk all the way down into Ginger's flesh John can't believe are his and drawing all this blood and not because they have a mind of their own, but because they are his instruments, Tim sees all of that and shakes, skull overheating, chest in pieces, hands clawing on themselves, and it lasts for millions and millions of years, for fractions of a second, and when Tim can't take it anymore, when he simply can't, it's one, two, three and bang.

  
So one day Tim gets up abruptly, abandoning the chair and the cigarettes and his fucking abstinence, and lands heavily right next to Ginger's fucked up head transmitting acute delicious shame right into his dumb shark brain, and his hands move on their own, appearing on Ginger's heaving chest, because he's a zombie fish and can't do anything, but his systems operate on instincts, and he puts his fingers on Ginger's nipples, twisting them, he tips the balance, kicking the scales of history and ripping through the millions and millions of years, through fractions of a second, and listens to Ginger cry out, saying John's name, and thanks gods he didn't go for his throat with his attempt to provide fucking help, he didn't punch his helping hand through Ginger's heaving chest, he didn't snap his neck, he didn't kill him on the spot, which is a miracle, because he wants to, on his own and also for John, he's fucking bowing there, scooping the goo up with his palms and shoving it in John's astounded angelic face, he's saying _you're doing this._

So one day Tim sits down next to the two of them, putting his fingers on Ginger's nipples as he arches off the mattress, fucking into the fleshjack with a buttplug in his ass and flapping like a flag, Tim twists them, squeezing, and Ginger cries out, saying _John_ and _God_ and _John_ and _fuck_ and _John_ , and Ginger comes, falling apart before John and for John, and John... 

John shakes violently, one, two, three and Tim chokes on his breath, hoping he didn't mess it up, didn't spoil it, didn't _interfere_ , and looks at John, and John... John doesn't even see him. John shakes like a rock hit by an earthquake, everything human that was left vanishing from his face, his pupils blown, the horrible, alien thing overtaking him entirely, John shakes, and it is one, two, three and eruptions reach his core, and from there, from there it's pure greed. 

So one day Ginger comes, a sweaty pile of pathetic goo, sobbing out John's name, and John shakes violently, yanked out of his trance, he grabs Ginger's legs that are still jerking because he's still convulsing, John pulls them up and apart and fumbles, hands aiming at everything at once, even his talents not enough, John spends excruciatingly long seconds freeing Ginger's hole of obsctacles, finding the lube and dropping it and smearing himself in it, in an insufficient amount of it, because nothing is sufficient at the moment, John wastes long seconds of Ginger's long, excruciating orgasm and then enters him, sweeping the last vibrations off the surface of the Earth with one smooth and seething tongue of lava and causing new ones, causing Ginger to cry out again, to call him by his name, to welcome him.

Causing pain.

  
So one day Tim sits on the bed right next to the two of them and watches John fuck Ginger, panting as if his every thrust is a hammer that punches all air out of his collapsing lungs, hissing, unable to pronounce anything, just holding Ginger with his hands, a bit of gripping him too tight because no one controls such gluttony and because he lets him and a lot of pressing him to his chest like the dearest possession and running away so that no one else could even see him, Tim seeing both of them, Ginger's vulnerable throat producing moans, John's orgasm ripping through him and crushing all three of them, Tim sitting right next to them and seeing them, being himself invisible and so inconsequential that the shaking, dumbfounded bastards clinging to each other, glued to each other by come and sweat and blood and ashes and most of all by suffering that was accepted, the bastards not even knowing who it is who wipes the come and sweat off their shaking bodies, wrapping them in blankets, and brings them water, helping him to drink before they pass out.

And soon, "I am three-quarters gone!"

So one day Tim simply cries himself to sleep, watching them through blurry eyes for millions and millions of years until he too falls, losing consciousness, wet face pressed to Ginger's feet.

  
Then one day, when John finds the fleshjack again and fucks Ginger on his back or rather puts him on his back and onto his cock, making him wriggle on it, and disembowels him with that weird rubber tube with lips as a form of cannibalistic leisure, Tim sits on the bed next to them, mouth turning into a sandy desert at the sight of Ginger's black pleading eyes he looks at John with, moaning out his name softly, Tim sits on the bed next to them and when he can't take it anymore, when John's being a perfect monster makes his eyes bleed, he brushes his fingers over John's hand claiming Ginger's stomach as his other hand teases and torments his cock the way it does the strings, he touches John's hand, pulling him out of his trance just enough for John to notice he's there and he implores him.

"Can I be that?" he asks, voice tense, and John sure doesn't look like he speaks any human language, like he's a member of any earthly species, like he's capable of comprehending anything apart from unconditional surrender, but since it's not just Ginger lying there squirming who's succumbing to the will of heavens, it's also Tim who's capitulating there, since that is true John grabs him by his hair without understanding the exact words he uttered and pulls him down, and it might be that on his way to defeat Tim catches the last glimpse of Ginger's facial expression, the one that means that it's one, two, three and Ginger will also notice him, will call him by his name, will try to give something to him and to love him, but it's too late, because Tim's journey is a short one and at the end of it he stops seeing anything, shoved by John's celestial hand onto Ginger's cock instead of the fleshjack he longed to be.

So one day John fucks Tim's face on Ginger's cock while fucking Ginger or rather John teases and torments Ginger with Tim's accomodating mouth, while Ginger wriggles there and clenches around him, looking at him as if he's God himself and John most definitely is that, John decides his fate, ruling his existence, John sees everything and can do anything, and they stare at each other in their shared trance, John culling Ginger and Ginger not only letting him, but also kissing the cruel hands, John asking what he wants and Ginger saying he wants John to hurt him, John asking how and Ginger saying _yes_ and _John_ , and sure, Tim can't see anything, Tim is trapped in a hellish battle with his own stomach, coughing and suffocating there, guided by John for whom he's just a tool, trying not to puke his guts out and praying, praying that he doesn't, because there is no place there for his fucking guts, for anything that is his horrible, appalling filling, praying that this damnation of being ruptured from inside never stops, that he's forever a device for John to utilize, to exercise his supernal will with, that he's forever Ginger's death bed, that he's forever just a collection of particles for them, he's praying for that, even though it feels like pure torture for him.

So one day Tim slumps onto the floor after Ginger comes in his mouth and John comes in him, after they both come having interacted in the most fundamental way, in the way they both wanted, Tim rolls off the bed once they fall next to each other, kissing, crying, speaking of harrowing, nightmarish feelings, speaking of pain and love, Tim disappears from view entirely, slumping onto the floor, and vomits violently, howling as his guts contract.

So one day Tim passes out in the pool of his own puke, and the sound of two intermixing breaths coming from above is the lullaby that shapes his bizarre dreams.

  
Then one day Tim says nothing, and when the bastards are already hugging, when harrowing, nightmarish things are being said again, supply fucking endless, hell pit deep, Tim simply lies between Ginger's legs, face pressed between his cheeks, and licks up John's junk that's slowly spilling out of him, lips aching, while John listens to Ginger talking about what being favored by Gods does to him and about what he is, John gasping and whining through gritted teeth, Tim just kissing Ginger's hole, gulping down John's juices, because he's heard all of that before, oh, has he heard all of that before.

  
Then one day Tim crawls under Ginger's trembling body while John fucks him from behind, pulling at his hair and hauling him up, strands wrapped around his fist, Ginger's neck arching, spine curved miserably, John's fingers moving in his mouth, sliding in and out, Ginger's mantra of John's name slurred, John's lips unable to contain the blood gushing out of him, Ginger's blood and his own pitch black lava, both the bastards steaming, Tim crawls under them, having smeared his hole in lube in such a hurry that he must have gone from zero to a gaping fucking vent within twenty seconds, Tim crawls under them, chest pressed flat to the mattress and ass put up in the air awkwardly, he shifts, adjusting his position, and spreads his cheeks, searching blindly for Ginger's cock and growling, beseeching for a helping tentacle, and then, with some effort, they collide.

So one day John fucks Ginger from behind, pulling at his hair and ravaging his mouth, whispering in his ear in a breaking, boiling voice, hissing out how much he loves him when he's Like That, how much he wants him, how compliant he is, how many things he wants to do to him - _like Tim_ \- how Ginger's his, his, his, greed pouring out of him, thick, black, seething, horrible, alien and ugly, Ginger moaning and shaking, going through his seizures, trapped between John and Tim's deformed cadaver, between John's avid thrusts inside him and Tim's gaping vent his awesome cock is stuck in, John whining, asking Ginger if he likes this and this and this, if he'll let him do more, because John wants to do more, because Ginger's so fucking hot, he loves him so much, he's so, so, so - _broken and pathetic_ , Tim thinks, and John chokes, finding no words, Ginger saying _god, please, John_ , _please_ to every question, saying _yes_ when John ask if this and this and this hurts, saying _do this again_ , saying _do anything you want_ , saying _just, just, just_ \- _eat me_ , Tim thinks, and Ginger chokes, having no breath left, and while they are chatting up in heaven, discussing how exactly John is going to devour Ginger, the gift and its recipient working on an agreement that'll satisfy both sides, while they are sorting through what it is that their hearts desire Tim dissolves there, quietly, face buried in the pillow, chest pressed to the mattress, emptiness before his eyes, the particles of love and pain the sweet cannibalistic tandem is exhaling in his ears, and the only thing he feels, apart from John's thrusts finding their way into him through Ginger, repeated by him without thinking what he's doing because he's only thinking about John, the only thing Tim feels apart from the waves that rock Ginger's body onto him, created by John and overcoming him, apart from lying there like a cavern for both of them to spill in, Tim feels the ghost-like movements of the chain connecting the clamps on Ginger's nipples placed on them by John's hand millenia ago, the chain touching his spine, brushing against his vertebrae chaotically, following John's thrusts and Ginger's seizures, and it is those touches exactly that push him over the edge in the end.

So one day Tim comes, smothering himself, the wet cloth of the pillowcase the air in his lungs, and the sweet cannibalistic _festive_ bastards come in him and most of all in one another, melting there above him, morphing into a pile of limbs and teeth and goo and sugar and falling down on him, breathless, sweaty, heavy, overwhelming him, and he doesn't flinch, doesn't try to find escape, he doesn't move, not even a single digit, not even a single grain of him does.

  
And at last, "I am all gone!" 

  
One day Tim's standing in the middle of the kitchen, a cigarette hanging off his lips and a slippery chicken threatening to fall out of his hands, Tim swearing through gritted teeth and trying to shove things that don't belong there inside the carcass. 

One day Tim's in the kitchen and he's actually cooking there and not contemplating his own questionable essence, and it's not his best day, and the dumb dead bird just keeps floundering, and that is how John finds him there.

One day Tim sees John's ghost-like white as marble frame in the doorway and jumps, the dumb dead bird jumping with him.

One day they talk.

"Fuck," Tim says, saving their dinner through inhuman efforts. "I'm under siege. What the fuck do you need?"

And then he never spoke again

Both Tim's overwrought and John's disconcerted states are actually caused by what went on some time before. 

So Tim's not courteous enough while addressing the pale royalty, and John bites his nails before responding.

"He..." John says. "Fuck. He looks so good like that."

It's John's turn to wonder what's there at the core.

Tim sighs and shakes his head, putting down the stubborn chicken and wiping his oily hands on his own pants.

The matter's urgent.

"Yeah, he does."

And John's anxious. John's not as used to self-examination as Tim is, and he mustn't ever be.

"I don't wanna hurt him, Tim."

Tim laughs, putting out his cigarette.

"You do."

"You---" John spits out, a surge of anger shooting through him. Tim simply looks at him, lighting up another smoke, eyebrows raised. "Fuck, okay. Okay. I do."

Tim takes a drag, smiles.

"But... But not like---"

"Not like I did, sure." John glances at him. "You won't." John looks away. "You aren't me."

Tim is Tim, though, and he stands there, smoking, waiting for John to unload the burden.

"Why is it..." John says. "Why does he feel... Why does he feel that shit then? Why is it so hard for him? It's... It's not like that with you."

Tim sighs out a chuckle, wiping his face, so now it is also covered in oil.

 _It's worse with me_ , he thinks.

_It's just when it was worse with me, you were still blind._

"Jesus, you're a jealous bastard," he says. "It's not like that with me, because I've spent fucking years grinding him. And I am not picky about the means. You are squeamish. And a chicken."

When John's resentful of him, John looks at him.

"Fuck you. You asshole."

"Yeah," Tim says. "Yeah, I am. That's my whole point, John. And you aren't a dearie either, but you are kind. And not insane. So," Tim takes a drag. "Stop and think about what he heard when you were still screaming _Tim, you fucking monster, stop_ while I was crushing him. Like really think about it."

Now that John's not blind, he is disinclined to see, and could Tim blame him.

John clenches his fists, rubs at the wrists.

"Don't know. I don't fucking know. What?"

 _You do_ , Tim thinks.

_That's why you're here._

"You know what. You've just listened to it for the last forty minutes. _Ginger, you're a disgusting piece of shit, how can you allow this, how can you like this_. That's what he heard."

John shakes, a wave of heat hitting Tim in the chest.

"But I didn't---"

"Of course, you didn't. I know that. He---" Tim exhales, takes a drag. "Well. He's just fucking afraid, John. That you're gonna see him for what he feels he is and throw him away. That's it."

"But I won't---"

"Of course, you fucking won't. Of course, you won't. And he likes it. Whatever the fuck it is we're doing to him. He really likes it. Wants it. Delighted moron. But he's shitting himself thinking that you might not. That's why it's hard. Okay? That's why it's hard for him."

John hisses, whines, wipes his mouth.

"I don't fucking get it. I don't get it, Tim."

_Don't cry._

"I know," Tim says. _Good that you don't,_ Tim thinks. "You don't need to."

John hisses, purses his lips, stares point blank at him.

"How can you say that? How can you even say all of that? That he's... Fuck. Fuck. How can you, Tim?"

Tim smiles, bites his lips, wipes his mouth - not that he can actually do anything about what's happened to it.

Tim puts out his cigarette.

"Doesn't matter. I'm a jerk. Who gives a fuck? It's not important. What is, John, is that you don't need to get it. You just need to love him."

"I do. I fucking do."

"Yeah. You do. So just keep nailing it into his dumb head, John. That's it. Just keep doing that."

John sniffs.

"Fuck. Okay. Okay."

Tim rubs at the back of his neck, because no body part of his should stay free of fucking grease.

"Alright. Good," he says and nods at the table. "Want some chicken?"

John glances at the dumb dead bird and then at him again.

"Tim. It's raw."

Tim laughs.

 _Fussy idiot_ , he thinks.

"Okay, yeah. It is," he says. "Then how about you help me finally put it into the oven through your majestic presence here and we eat it when it's ready and we don't look like red-eyed video games enthusiasts residing in their mother's cellar anymore?"

  
So one day Tim says that and John sits with him in the kitchen for ten more minutes, watching the final stages of the battle, and then they crawl under the blankets, trapping Ginger's drooling plasma between their bodies, and then they sleep.

  
So one day Ginger kneels, kissing John's feet and legs and hands and arms, one day he sucks his cock, standing on his knees, and says _can you..._ , says _can you pull my hair_ , one day John asks him if he's sure, if he wants that, and he says _yes_ , so John pull his hair, and then it's Ginger's turn, Ginger asks him, asks him what he wants, and what John wants is to be _better than_ , so one day Ginger stands on his knees while John slides his cock in and out of his mouth Ginger touched for him and showed him how to touch for him, and both idiots are a black and white image of what Tim lived through in his past, a fucking monument to his transgressions, so one day he watches them, smoking in the chair, and Ginger starts crying while John fucks his mouth.

One day John shits himself.

"God, Ginj," he breathes out and almost takes a step back, he kind of sways and hesitates to touch Ginger's wet face, hand suspended in thin air. "Don't cry."

One day John says that and Tim laughs like a rude, heartless, cold-blooded jerk, and the chilly wave that blurred his vision and slipped its tongue inside his nuclear disaster stops rolling off Ginger's scared naked back with pathetic vertebrae as Tim gets up and walks to them.

"Don't listen to him, squid," Tim says, laughing, sounding obnoxious, and sits down on the floor right next to Ginger, hands now on his shoulders. "John's just confused. You know, all this worship and cock sucking. Of course, you should cry."

He wipes the tears off Ginger's face and licks the fingers, snarling. He grabs John's hand and puts it on Ginger's wet skin too. He looks at John the way that assholes oughtn't look at angels. He looks at John the way that makes him spiral down into the hell pit with him.

John licks Ginger's tears off his fingers.

"Perfect," Tim says and watches John's face while John fucks Ginger's mouth and looks at him in trance, Ginger on his knees and melting, crying, trembling, Tim holding him in place for John.

John comes and Ginger swallows. He says _I love you._ John bites his lips and goes infinitely dense and slaps him. Ginger moans. John says _I want you to come_. Tim holds Ginger in place for John while Ginger beats off on his knees before John. John slaps him. Ginger comes and shakes, looking up at John. He sobs. John swallows hard. John frowns. John almost goes down on his knees as well. _Did I hurt you_ , John asks. John sounds kind. Tim wonders if that's what Ginger hears. Ginger says _no._

"Thank you," Ginger says.

  
So one day Ginger says that, and forty minutes later Tim and John have a talk standing by the dumb dead chicken in the kitchen.


	29. Intercalation

  
There is that day when Tim exits the dealership, almost crawling out of there on all fours, spine broken by the width of tires and gears of the transmission, brain attempting to leave his skull, his body tumbling towards his old car he's gonna fucking keep until it fucking turns into fucking dust, because he actually won't be needing it, he won't ever do any driving and these are his last steps, he'll spend a month in a wheelchair, two comatose and eternity in a coffin a kind soul will buy for him, because he's not entering any commercial establishments again, ever, there is that day when Tim walks half dead out of the dealership, heading to his car, and sees John pacing angrily in front of it, there is that day when John shouts at him, asking what the fuck took him so long, asking why he hasn't given him the keys, asking if Tim's forgotten about him, asking for ice cream, whining and resentful, and as Tim watches him eat two cones one after another, two cones Tim buys for him in a supermarket nearby, as Tim licks his sweet sticky stained nose he wrinkles, making a disgruntled face at him, Tim realizes that he is not half dead, but half alive, Tim looks at John and smiles like a complete idiot who doesn't know a single thing about ignition, Tim looks at John and smiles.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim plays Anton's latest album the fucker sent to him via postal service, there is that day when Tim laughs like mad, shaking his head, looking at the cover with Anton's goddamn _bulge_ on it, when he says _can you believe him_ , pointing at the autograph, when they dance to it or, rather, against it, deliberately missing every beat, Ginger stepping on Tim's toes, Tim grabbing at his awesome cock that belongs to him, there is that day when Tim and Ginger dance in their house to songs about vodka drinking exactly that, there is that day when Tim kisses Ginger's wrists for every time he calls him _babe_ , there is that day when they just stand in the middle of the silent room, swaying, half asleep, half dead on their feet, there is that day when they hug, a shark and a giant squid, both drunk, both fucking wasted, both in love.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim is put into a fucking suit by John, is told to behave like an adult, is dragged by him to the fuck knows what floor of fuck knows how tall a building to support him while he's getting a _consultation_ from a lawyer, because he's... Well, obviously not because he is afraid of lawyers who make him pay for their tricks, they aren't dentists, it's just because, because he can, he's John 5 and he commands Tim Skold, so Tim is to be Nice. There is that day when Nice Tim and John 5 enter the elevator for the longest fucking ride in their lives. There is that day when the damn elevator stops on every fucking floor. There is that day when with every meter in the upward direction Nice Tim becomes more and more bored and ingenious. There is that day when those who exit their moving prison are John 5 seconds away from orgasm and Nasty Tim, there is that day when Cunning Tim's fingers find their way to Protesting John's ass, Tim lurking behind him, nonchalant as he rubs at his hole, saying _good afternoon_ to every business lady and every business gentleman who joins them in their trip to the very skies. 

There is that day when Tim eats John out in the stall of a public restroom in a very serious and lawful building.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when the goddamn air conditioner in their room breaks down five minutes after they arrive there, there is that day when fucking walls melt, that's how hot it is, there is that day when Ginger falls asleep, ruined by the flight they took and full of cold beer that is no help, there is that day when Tim misses seventeen calls from people who invited him to pull the strings at their show and doesn't open the door both the receptionist and the repair crew knock on, there is that day when Ginger falls asleep on his shoulder, sweaty, wrinkled, tired, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, snoring, drooling, looking positively brain-dead with his mouth open, there is that day when Tim sits there on the couch, back shattered, neck being severed by a guillotine, ignoring the whole world around him and not even smoking, when Tim simply looks at Ginger's unconscious face for like two hours and fuck everything, because otherwise what is he going to do? He isn't fucking _moving._

There is that day.

  
There is that day when the amount of goddamn essential oils in John's bath Tim poured in there turns out to be just a bit excessive, so his previously relaxed and basking virtuoso very quickly becomes an itching, irritated one, one seeking vengeance, there is that day when like a whole fucking bucket of cooling, tingly, invigorating peppermint ends up in the tub Tim falls into like an explosive mechanism that goes _fuck, fuck, fuck_ as the timer approaches zero, there is that day that is a torture session Tim imposes on himself and John carries on, and quite happily, jabbing Tim's sore, swollen body with his fingers, pretty restored himself in that regard, there is that day when Tim begs for mercy, saying that it's too much, there is that day when John laughs at him, telling him to forget the ocean and get into a jar, because he's no shark, he is a guppy, there is that day when John puts a shit ton of moisturizing cream on Tim's burning casing and keeps his palms on him as they fall asleep. 

In exchange for a week of Nice Tim, of course.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim's culinary temple turns into architectural remains adorned with Ginger sitting there in the middle of the havoc on the chair, biting his lips and staring at the floor, an absolute disaster of a risotto chilling out on the table next to him, there is that day when Tim comes home and finds his squid devastated even more than his precious kitchen, _I just wanted to do something nice for you_ , Ginger tells him and Tim laughs, _as in opposed to every other second of your life when you do nothing for me or what_ , he asks and hugs him, Ginger laughing too, unwinding, there is that day when Tim picks up the fork and tries Ginger's catastrophe, saying there is always an option of pretending it was supposed to be that way if the food turns out not so good, there is that day when Tim learns it is not an option, Ginger's risotto now scattered across the table too, Tim spitting out mashed starchy bullshit along with _Jesus fucking Christ_ , there is that day when Ginger pushes him and they have their physical altercation that only adds to the abominable mess Ginger's attempt at cooking resulted in.

There is that day when they order takeout on the phone, when it is almost midnight, to avoid starvation, because Tim offers Ginger to start all over, offers him his help, tells him they will cook this damn rice together and it will turn out fantanstic and it doesn't, it stays forgotten and forlorn, because Tim looks at Ginger as he throws away his cataclysm, washes the dishes, takes out the ingredients again, Tim looks at Ginger's every little motion, enchanted and entranced, chest melting, and Ginger shivers, shivers under his dedicated gaze, stops in his tracks, lost in the middle of his forest, and Tim looks at him and smiles, Tim says _fuck it, come here_ , Tim says _I don't even like risotto much_ , Tim says _I like squid_ , Tim looks at him and smiles, going numb, while Ginger sits in his lap in the middle of the kitchen, Tim kissing every centimeter of his hands and face.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when John points his finger at the showcase of somebody else's culinary temple, prescribing Tim to make a cake just like the one he's in love with sitting there on display, and Tim asks him _what kind of cake is that_ and John says _how would I know_ and Tim asks him _well, what's in it_ and John says _I haven't tried it yet_ and Tim commits suicide right at the spot and drags John into the cafe to stuff his mouth and John's mouth's stuffed, John's mouth says the cake is made of _mhmmhmm_ and _mhhmmhm_ and _mmhhmhmore_ and Tim gets up to pay for another slice and flirt with the shop assistant to get the recipe and John's stuffed mouth keeps moaning and Jenny tells Tim that they don't make their cakes, but buy them, but she can call and ask her friend Suzy who works at the bakery that makes them, but Suzy's on vacation at the moment, but there are other people there who would know, but they don't, because it is not like a big bakery, it's more like a workshop, you know, like organic baking soda and everything's homemade, only local products and Suzy's got that recipe from a French couple, Andre and Manon, that she was hitchhiking with, and the thing is, it's in her diary and she's on a retreat at the moment, you know, yoga, and yes, of course, one more slice, oh, two more, oh, and diabetes, fine, that would be fourteen fifty, and Tim sits down and performs an autopsy on his own slice of cake, because get your own slice of cake, I'm not giving you my slice of cake, so what that it is the third one, I have already told you it is made of _mhmmhmm_ and _mhhmmhm_ , haven't I.

There is that day and there is another day when Tim makes a cake for John that is just like the cake John's fallen in love with and doesn't tell him it is a completely different fucking cake, it is a cake that is the very opposite, it's made of _mhmmhhm_ and _mmhmmhm_ , it is Tim's ugly cake trapped in a body of an organic homemade hitchhiking yoga cake, it is a cake Tim's made for John and John only and well, okay, for himself too, it is a cake Tim's made for John to stuff his mouth with and for himself to watch him doing it, so greedy, so pretty and disgusting, so simply fucking perfect like no cake can be.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim sits with Ginger in a massive whirlpool because it's not to be deserved, it's to be found in a hotel room after a day of hard labor concerning knobs and strings, there is that day when Tim rents a room in a ridiculously posh hotel where everything is golden and they sit together in a massive whirlpool, throwing strawberries at each other and whistling, drinking actual champagne from the bottle, saving the shit ton of cocaine for later, and the whirlpool is so massive that it's just their feet that touch, Tim poking his toes between Ginger's, Ginger kicking him and splashing out the water, there is that day when Ginger gets up to urinate into a fucking throne that is the toilet and Tim stops him, catching his hand with his, and asks him if this is an evening of debauchery or not, and it most definitely is, so there is that day when Ginger takes a leak on him right in the massive whirlpool that is already quite a cocktail, there is that day when Tim drinks his piss, his mouth on his cock, there is that day when every centimeter of Tim's skin and every hair of his becomes made of the noble metal, there is that day when Tim sits in the whirlpool with Ginger like some sort of stinky King Midas, but opposite and actually more like Dionysus with his festivities and madness and fucked up rituals and ecstasy and the goddamn champagne.

There is that day when Tim returns the favor some minutes later, and Ginger's tentacles he's holding his cock with get irrigated with Tim's diamonds, Tim towering above him, cupping his nape, fingers playing with his hair.

There is that day when actual champagne is not the only thing both of them drink.

There is that day when their tongues bump into each other as they lap at the whirlpool of Tim's piss in Ginger's palms.

There is that day when their tongues relocate and never go back to their respective mouths.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim sits with John in front of a massive mirror because when John is by his side he is invincible, or, rather, he's conquered by John, there is that day when Tim sits with John in front of a massive mirror in a ridiculously posh hotel and lets the giggling idiot paint both their faces, or, rather, obstructs John's attempts when it is his winking smirking snout that's being adorned and ornamented, there is that day when John leaves the hotel room looking like Apollo who is a drag queen Aphrodite and Tim tags along as a simple peasant wearing mostly smudges and his friend's the fisher's old fishnet, there is that day when they dance for hours at a ridiculously posh club, even though them being allowed entrance is a proper mystery, there is that day when somebody ends up having his lipstick stained mouth fucked.

There is that day when John passes out, head in Tim's lap, almost at the doorstep of another, much less respectable ass twirl establishment it is a mystery they aren't rightful owners of, and Tim sits there next to empty bottles on the vomit covered ground, studying John's sleeping features under the shit ton of make up that is still somehow clinging to his marble skin, and his middle finger is up in the air the whole time, because the world can go fuck its own mouth, John's beautiful and John is with him.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Ginger isn't in the bedroom or on the couch or rummaging Tim's precious fridge or at the drum kit in the basement or in Tim's pagan temple room because why would he go there or in all those other rooms nobody ever goes to because Tim has a thing for properly welcoming his guests or on the lawn fuck we really have a lawn or in the trunk of Tim's old car he should replace with a new one because this barn on wheels is seriously annoying or on the floor in Tim's don't go there because Tim's out, Tim runs around the house looking for his squid and his squid is in the bathroom where the mirror has been smashed, his squid is examining the contents of the laundry basket, immersed in holes and stains of their past.

There is that day when Tim joins him.

So the shirt is Tim's, he bought it at the Who Gives A Fuck and paid with money, it's Tim's, because check this out, there is a phone number written on the tag, the phone number of the shop assistant Tim didn't even need to flirt with, the phone number Tim since has called, the other shirt is Ginger's, because if it is not a phone number or at least a drawing of a cock then Tim doesn't buy things with hidden messages on labels, especially if they are of a fortune cookie type ones, the other shirt is also Ginger's, Tim doesn't have that many shirts with top buttons safe and sound, the next one is his again, but Tim is the one who wears it, top button gone, a drawing of a cock nevertheless present on the label, the socks are public property, the T-shirts are... who knows, that one is most likely Tim's, though, because the statement it parades is offensive and Ginger always reads and reviews the statements on his own T-shirts, and the one there in the corner must be Ginger's and if it's not then it's a gift, it's his from now on, because it suits him and his stupid face, more socks, socks are fucking catacombs of skin and sweat, the ugly sweater is surely Ginger's, oh, wait, no, it is Tim's, it was a gift and that was even funny, but anyway, Tim's not the one who wears it, is he, then there is the wifebeater, the loose boxers, a fucking tie, John's underwear with suspicious substances on it - oh, that last item is Tim's, well, John's, but Tim has stolen it, the pants are, oh, look, there is a hole...

There is that day and Ginger's initial plan was to find another pair and take the note with a phone number out of the pocket, because he needs to make that call and no, it's not a flirty one, it's just... fuck off, Tim, don't, god, stop, Tim, fuck, I can't, can't anymore, fuck, Tim, it's just a fucking gift for you.

There is that day and Tim doesn't need any fucking gifts apart from Ginger's breathless tickled to death body.

Also, there is a hole.

There is that day when Tim stops with the torture, because confession has been made, there is that day when Tim joins the sorting, because why not, there is that day when Tim sees the hole in his - probably - pants Ginger's showing him.

There is that day when Tim recognizes it.

Even though it is a mystery his memory still stores those events, because his plan was full oblivion and doing drugs and sucking cock, and he's quite good at that.

There is that day when Tim touches Ginger's confused tentacle poking the result of a distant drunk fight he had, when Tim puts his repentant hand on his and says _I've never apologized for that_ , _have I_ and a bit later they book the tickets to _Vancouver_ , because what's the difference, and Tim writes down all the addresses of the food establishments of uncertain ethnic origin and even more uncertain quality they are totally going to visit when they go away and spend some time _together._

There is that day and the blissful week they kill up north, and it is just a week, because John won't let them leave for two, and what they bludgeon it with is... well, mostly abhorrently romantic kissing.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when Tim's not at the studio, not at the shop, not at the fucking dentist's, not _there where he is sometimes at_ , when he's not listening to John's incessant playing, not reading Ginger's books which procreate like rabbits, not even engaging in observation of the void, there is that day when Tim's in bed, under the blankets, nose running, sweaty, heavy head, weak, feeble, puny, when he's in his own snot hell, coughing, sneezing, vomiting - fuck, of course he's vomiting - and groaning that the wants to die, preferrably in the nineteenth century so that by now he'd be long gone, there is that day when Ginger's there at his side to save him, to bring him water and disgusting chicken broth, to blow his nose the chicken broth is running out of, to tuck him in and to pull the blankets off and then to tuck him in once more, to put his blessed tentacle on his damned forehead, there is that day when Tim is suffering at the protein spikes of microscopic assholes and Ginger lies down next to him, then even closer, then on top of him, then _in_ him, and that... well, that is an interesting experience, it's definitely new, in darkness, because lights hurt his sandy eyes, under the blankets, because he's cold like the Antarctic ice shield, and just being so passive like he has never ever been, because he can't move a single digit, because it is like necrophilia, but in reverse and also consensual, because... because he's Tim, Tim might be half dead, half already rotten, but Tim is Tim, and actually his dry tongue he can move, though not much and rather incoherently, but Ginger knows who Tim is, and who Tim is is like an... oozy, sludgy Victorian era pox corpse that's penetrated anally by a highly compassionate Great Old One and then, some hours later, by more reluctant whining and beautiful The One, because Tim's cadaver's been revived and now can pester virtuosos on the phone with pleading moans and nasal bellowing, because this experience is interesting indeed, because no, John, just being buried under lead is not enough, please, come, I'm dying, I'm, I'm, fuck, I'm gonna sneeze, fuck, fucking hell, why do I always vomit, yes, I am, I so am, you know me so well, now fucking come here already, I need the cure.

There is that wretched, miserable, man flu day that ends with him still being a pool of barely human remains and snot, of course, but the one that's being fucked and hugged. 

Soothed by four hands that hold him. 

There is that day.

  
There is that day when the owners of four hands whisper quietly behind his back and, not without a bit of obnoxious giggling, leave the room, actually leave the fucking room, and Tim is cast away in there, lying on his stomach, helpless, forsaken and forlorn, gagged, tied up and blindfolded, a seriously perverted Bavarian sausage with mental issues and a touch of repressed anger as the sauce, there is that day when Tim thinks _shit_ , hearing the whispers and the giggling and the fucking steps retreating, when he thinks _shit_ again, when _shit_ is all he thinks for... okay, it's like four minutes, tops, no fucking billions of years involved, but can't a debauched meat product be poetic in such an intriguing situation? Of course it can.

There is that day when Tim lies there incapacitated on the bed and thinks _shit_ for four lonely minutes, when after they pass by he hears the steps again, the giggling too, and yeah, he's expected something like that from John, sure, but squid, fucking squid actually daring to abandon him, that's... that is the sound of Ginger's steps and swearing, it is, and that's John's snickering, and they are carrying something heavy, the idiots are bumping into things, the idiots pant like they've run a marathon whilst giving each other piggyback rides and don't ask Tim how paradoxes work, he knows nothing, he's gagged, tied up, blindfolded, he's listening carefully to what is happening that day, that day when after a lot of shuffling, snickering and swearing both idiots lie down next to the disabled warhead and pull up the lead aprons that have multiplied since the last time Tim saw them in a dusty corner of a triangle his degenerate equipment tends to disappear in, there is that day when Tim ends up being trapped between the owners of four sly, snooping, _transgressive_ fucking hands, that day when two bastards poke their fuck, how many is it, eighteen, nineteen, twenty fingers in his hole, each and every one of them, teasing him and taunting him and tickling him and positively torturing him, driving him mad and to the very edge of his climax he's chasing but won't get, that day when he actually comes fuck, how many is it, one, two, three times during those sweaty, shaking moments of vulnerable surrender he fully welcomes because it is for them, for those bastards, the two bastards who bury not only him, but themselves as well under the isolation that keeps the radioactive creature that they are from wiping out the whole universe they don't give a fuck about.

There is that eventful day.

  
There is that day when all Tim can move is his boiling head, and that is not because he's bound or otherwise restricted, it's because he's burning, melting, because his legs are on their thighs, spread wide and made of nuclear explosion gas, because he is in the middle, because to the left of him is Ginger and to the right of him is John and if he wants to see them as they look at him like shattered mirrors, like mirrors that are so unlike those ones he sometimes stares in, like mirrors he has smashed, swallowed, digested, annihilated and transformed, if he wants to see them as they look at him and at his mouth they are soiling with his own filth, then he must move, so that day he does, that day when there are bruises still blooming on his neck, bruises left there by John's fingers, when he still can feel his kiss on his lips that're now stretched around the dildo, when Ginger's plasma is deluging the rest of him, because he's always there with him, he's inside him, and in John now there is a bit - a bite - of him and Ginger's jelly too, there is that day when John and Ginger feed him his own shit off dildos sitting there on the couch with him, that day when he is a radioactive creature made of helpless gas that smashes, swallows, digests, annihilates and then transforms itself, that day when he is that with them, completely, fully, all of them together, that day when he does not deserve it, but they love him, love Tim who's Tim, there is that day when they are with him.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when they are with him at the movie theater or, rather, he's there with them, and they are watching something, something on the screen, imaginary people's lives and how they fuck them up, and he is watching them, sitting in the middle, head in a constant twirl, John eating popcorn, ingesting character development as if those characters are strings, Ginger shifting, straightening his sleeves and worrying his lips and gnawing on the straw in his coke without knowing he's at all moving, Tim watching them, their faces colored by the fotons emitted by the inconsequential pictures, their stupid faces that he loves. 

And not only more than fucking cinema.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when they are with him on the bench in some park with dogs and trees and passers-by and other bullshit and there aren't only them with him on that bench, there're also doughnuts, and Ginger's bought them and John's been eating them and Tim's been starting a local war, the one of a pushing laughing idiotic kind, there is that day when all three of them have a doughnut battle in some park and Tim ends up on the ground flapping there in disgrace while two bastards covered in sugar head to toe finish him.

There is that day when Tim ends up absolutely happy.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when they are at a club with him, a club Tim's not sure could exist, a club that is a stain on the face of the universe, a club that is worse than them, a club where they barricade themselves inside a stall, all three of them at the same time, and Ginger's drunk and Tim is on something and John's been energized by lewd ass twirling and subsequent flirting he engaged in and on the door of the stall they occupy is Tim's note that says there's double penetration going on inside, so join in or don't disturb, and well, it isn't, and it is not the last day of April, it isn't even spring, but they are crammed there inside the stall and there are sparks in their eyes, sparks of bonfires they will be burnt at, and there is John's scarf tied around their necks, the scarf that is their noose, and there are incantations on their lips and their lips are touching, there is that day when they get into a stall at an unbelievably appalling club, all three of them, when they stand there, close, pressed tight to each other, when they laugh like mad and kiss like horny teenagers, when three witches have a gathering, when they are a glorious fucking shitsorcery coven standing there in a circle, a dirty toilet chilling out in the middle.

There is that satanic night and there is that day.

  
There is that day when they aren't there with him, when they are on their hairy fucking tour, oh, no, not the tour, when they are on a trip in Europe, on a run around the northern capitals, the one when they reunite with Manuela, there is that day when Tim is at home or at the studio or at the shop or at the car fucking dealership, when he's all alone, when there is an ocean between them, that day when so what, all three of them are of the sea and John is additionally good at writing notes and taking interesting pictures, that day when Tim reads their letter to him, learning of the gas prices and the newspaper covers and the local weather like he needs to, like he doesn't know that it's shitty, that day when Tim responds with one single line to all the questions Ginger aims at him, that day when Tim spends hours scrolling up and down, looking at the photos, statues, buildings, clubs, cafes, Manuela's boobs, hugs and kisses, friendly shop assistants and bartenders, woods Ginger's still lost in, Manuela's boobs, John's filthy blissed out face, Ginger's red one, Manuela's pussy, lips and cocks and holes and so on, that day when Tim spends even longer looking at the clip, the short, blurry, tilted clip, a dimly lit hotel room and a pair of idiots and a pair of clamps and molten honey of their bodies with a touch of distant pain, the memories spicing up the arrangement he didn't orchestrate, but thoroughly enjoys, running his tongue over his teeth he's left those dents in them with, those dents that are their make up, the make up on their stupid faces that he loves.

Not only that day.

There is that sleepless day.

  
_Have fun, you traitors_ , Tim writes to them.

  
Pro Lapsu inter salutandum

  
_Please be fucking happy_ , Tim thinks.

  
There is that day.

  
There is that day when he is the one who's gone, when he is the local wooden idol of the show, when he is the main guitar jerking blond scum star, when he's on his philanthropic tour, there is that day when he sends the bastards who're missing him a dickpic and, in regards to sleeping, tells them on the phone that he sleeps with Mei and Mark - sometimes at the same time - and wait a second, I haven't asked yet, yeah, thanks, with Manuel, and I will sure as hell sleep with you muchachos when I come back, love, peace, hasta la vista.

There is that day when he learns a bit of Spanish and there is that day when he says he still doesn't fucking speak it.

There is that day when he's gone and there is that day when he returns.

There is that day.

  
There is that day when he sleeps with two idiots who miss him, that day when he passes out with them, that day when he wakes up with them, when they are there in his dreams like they are always in his dreams, when they are with him when he sleeps and they are with him when he looks at them at dawn.

Two fucking mysteries he loves.

There is that day.

  
There are those days.

  
He lives for those days.


	30. n.

  
But Tim.

  
Aren't you forgetting something?

  
You know, Tim.

  
There are so many other days.


	31. Thursday, 4th of November, 2010

  
He's promised them an awesome day together.

  
They went on a short holiday, he stayed at home, some things to wrap up at the studios and also he isn't into visiting theme parks as a romantic trio, they sent him pictures, their stupid happy faces, some nudes, some questions, some insults and a lot of taunting, he talked with them on the phone for hours and he has missed them, he's missed them so much, even though they were gone for less than a week.

And now that they are back he's promised them an awesome day together.

So cinema and benches and a lot of make up and there is a shit ton of food waiting in the fridge for him to turn it into an amazing dinner.

  
That dinner never happens.

  
The food... 

Most likely, somebody throws it away when it goes bad in his absence.

While he himself is rotting elsewhere.

  
Tim's sitting on the armrest of the chair, phone in hand, he slipped out of the conversation to answer the text the guys from the studio had sent him and then the other one, and since then he has been silent, he has been looking at them.

Two idiots who love him are talking with each other on the couch.

Ginger is ruined by the flight. John's wearing feathers. 

They hugged him in the doorway, he hugged them, he left some tears on both their necks, he has missed them, he's so, so happy to see them, it's just back when they were gone, when he was scrolling through the pictures of theme parks they'd sent him he noticed something, he really saw it, he thought long and hard about it, a theory became fully formed in his mind.

Tim lights up a smoke and looks at Ginger's pale wrinkled face and at his messy hair, a few braids tied with something lacy that for sure belongs to John adding to the chaos.

John has the brightest smile Tim has ever seen.

John looks at Ginger.

  
They came here from the airport and Ginger was dead on his feet and John had his hideous sunglasses on and Tim hugged them both, tearing up pathetically and pushing them, _I don't give a flying fuck_ , he said and laughed, when they attempted to tell him about the ferris wheel or something, he made a cup of his obnoxious tea for Ginger, solemnly accepting his gratitude, winking at him, he helped John out of his own leather jacket the whiny jerk had blackmailed him into surrendering and ran his palms over his perfect back clad in Ginger's not easily defendable brown shirt, he sat on the armrest and participated in the discussion, he said _yeah, sure, of course, most certainly_ , agreeing to every proposition, and interrupted tales about statues that they'd touched and ice cream flavors that they'd tried with the most pressing question.

"So when are we gonna fuck again?" he asked them.

  
Tim watches Ginger listening to John, eyes tender and affectionate, Tim hears John laugh, soft and sparkling, he touches his scarf in a coy gesture and goes on, telling Ginger of a film he watched, the film Ginger already knows everything about, because they watched it together, maybe four or five weeks earlier, and Tim watches them right now, forgetting entirely about him, talking to each other, never shutting up, as if they have just reunited after six, seven, eight long years, whereas in reality they've spent all this time being close, closer, ever closer, Tim watches them, John flirting, Ginger being shy, both in love like fucking teenagers, like those six, seven, eight long years have never happened, like they are still pure, Tim looks at them right in front of him like he looked at their pictures when they were distant and _when are we gonna fuck_ is no longer the main question he asks himself.

Not that he doesn't want to fuck them.

Of course, he does, he salivates simply at them smiling at each other, fully clothed and fairly decent on the couch, he has that warm, glowing, fuzzy nuclear explosion shimmering inside his chest, he has the taste of them on his lips and tongue, he can't stop looking at them, he's missed them, so, so much, it's just...

"Why are you here?" he asks, interrupting John's inconsistent narrative of the movie plot.

  
He is the one who starts it.

  
Always the fucking catalyst he is.

  
They both jump, hearing his voice. John frowns. Ginger's throat twitches. John doesn't get it. Ging---

"What?" John asks, squinting at him.

Ginger gulps.

"Why are you here?" Tim repeats his inquiry. "What are you guys doing?"

John purses his lips. Ginger looks at the floor and touches his sleeve. John's irritated. Ging---

"What do you mean?" John asks. "You told us to come here. You promised we're gonna go have fun. You said you'd cook."

Ginger glances at Tim.

It's not like Tim can help him.

Tim shakes his head.

"Yeah, of course, I did. I fucking will. Whatever. I just... I really don't get it. Why are you guys still here? What the fuck are you still doing here with me?"

  
They'd be much better on their own.

  
They can.

  
They can _be_ without him.

  
"Tim," Ginger says. The squid might not have vertebrae, but they are not a stu---

"Fuck, Tim," John says, voice with a twang. John's got it now. John is still behind. "Stop this. We've just arrived. What's with this bullshit again? Why wouldn't we be here? What have you fucking done that we should leave?"

  
Tim laughs.

  
Ginger's hand hovers in the air, almost touching John.

  
"What have I done?"

"Yeah," John says, voice stubborn. "What? I mean, you're annoying as fuck right now. That fucking... theater of yours. Always making yourself into some kind of villain. What have you fucking done that is so bad? That you need to spoil everything today for no reason?"

  
John is kind of stupid. Still.

Furious fucking gold fish.

  
"Tim, you..." Ginger starts. 

"I've broken him," Tim says, nodding at him, looking point blank at John. "Your favorite birthday toy. I slapped him so much he couldn't go out with you. Or anywhere. I beat him. Just two months ago. I choked him. Without warning. Without preparation. Without _you_. Just like that. Just because I could. Just six weeks ago. I told him he's a worthless pile of crap. You didn't let me into your house that day. I gave you some compliments as well. I raped him. Not recently, because now there is no need, he fucking agrees to everything anyway, but I did. You too, by the way. You and I need to fucking talk, you know. I fucking played you. You've forgiven me. Allowed me everything. All of that and more. I made you love me. Beat me. Choke me. Eat me. Eat _him._ I made you into... whatever it is you think I am. I've fucking hurt you nonstop for the last eight years and you're asking me what I have done? Wow, John. Wow.”

_How dumb are you._

  
John shivers, eyes narrow, face cracked, black, angry fissures crossing the flawless marble surface, Ginger's tentacle on his infuriated hand.

"Tim," Ginger says again.

"Fuck you," John says. "Okay. Okay, Tim, you are a piece of shit sometimes. Why are being it right now? We've just arrived. You said you'd missed us. You fucking cried. I saw it. Why are you being such an ass? Why are you saying this? _Hurting us nonstop_. Okay, I fucking know you have... problems. Mental shark. But we've dealt with them, haven't we? You don't... I mean, you have your room. When it is bad. You have your goddamn room."

  
Just like that.

  
Ginger shivers. 

A cold wave runs down Tim's tense back.

  
Tim looks at the cigarette package he's been squeezing.

"I have my room?" he says. His voice... His voice sounds foreign. The warmth is gone. His chest is... "Do you have any fucking idea what I even do in there?"

  
His chest is tight.

  
"Tim," Ginger says. "John."

  
"Donno, drink yourself to death?" John says, missing both their utterances. "Sulk and swear and refuse to talk to us. And stink. I don't fucking know what you do in there. You've never told us."

  
Tim's chest is empty.

  
"Fuck," Tim says. "You---"

"You don't have to go in there, you know," Ginger says. 

  
Soft. Gentle. As if he's apologizing.

  
"Fuck," Tim says and chuckles, turning to him. "Hi. You too? _You don't have to go in there_. Fuck. Don't I, darling?"

Ginger bites his lips, looks at the floor and shifts.

Ginger lifts his head again.

"Tim, I just..." he says. "You know, I just think it would be better if you actually talked. To us. When you---"

"Yeah," John says, cutting him short. "Yeah. You can talk to us. To me. If your fucking room doesn't help you. I told you you should talk to me."

  
And Tim is gone.

Just like that. Just like that his whole shell is empty.

  
"Oh," he says. He could've told them that, that he is empty, just like that, that he is gone, that this is all it took, a quick exchange, five minutes, a snap of fingers and he's a cold, slick, coiling monster, he is that vile thing that hates them, he could've told them how much he hates both of them right now, for no reason, he could've told them that, because that is the whole point, they might've... might've left, might've left him there, might've seen what he fucking is, but he doesn't, does he. He is the one who's gone. "Oh. Okay. Alright. Let's talk."

  
He gets up, throwing the masticated package onto the floor, he takes a step towards them, another one, another, creeping closer, he is way too near them and the idiots don't run away.

"Get up," he says, towering above them. "Come on. Get up. Let's go have a chat just like you fuckers want."

The filth looks up at him. The filth tries to touch his hand.

"Tim," it says.

"Fuck off," John says. "Stop it. Don't talk to us like that. You---"

  
He doesn't even look at him.

  
"Get up," he says again, and the slime staining his couch shivers. "Get up, you fucking food. Get. The fuck. Up. GET UP!"

  
He hears the sizzling sound as John inhales. 

The slime shivers once more and slowly gets up. Slowly, letting go of John, leaving goo on the fabric, fingers brushing against the seat, swaying, trying to stand still and take it, to stand still where Tim leaves him no place to be.

The slime gets up and they are chest to chest, and its eyes are smearing Tim in pathetic shit it has inside it. It is made of.

Tim smirks.

"Go on," he says and pushes him. "You know the fucking way."

  
And as Ginger complies, getting closer and closer to his prison they've fucking put him in, Tim looks at John.

"You're invited too," he says. "Feel free to join us. If you can tell your feet from your dumb head, of course."

  
He laughs, when he hears John's steps behind him.

He laughs, when he closes the door after them.

"Fuck you," John tells him.

  
But then he closes the door after all three of them.

He laughs.

  
And then he talks to them.

  
"Don't touch me," he says to Ginger, slapping his tentacle away. "Don't you ever, _ever_ dare touch me. You don't get to do that. Dirt. You're just fucking dirt."

  
The room is dark, he can't quite see his face, but he can see that he has cornered him, his no doubt sweaty spine he should've broken sooner pressed to the wall that has his own blood on it.

He knows he is pale. 

He can smell his fear.

  
"Welcome," he says, closing the door behind them. "Welcome to my fucking castle where I hate myself. And you too, sweethearts, you too, don't you worry. I fucking hate you too. But I just... Now that've said it. Can you answer me? Why the fuck... Why the fuck do I have to hate myself because of you?"

  
John's standing by the door.

He can't really see him either, it's just his figure that he sees when he turns around to look at him.

"Huh?" he asks and chuckles, seeing the distortion.

  
John doesn't answer.

How could he. 

He is _dumb._

  
He knows nothing. He's still standing by the door.

  
As if he is somehow outside the pit.

  
"Hey, slime," he talks to Ginger. "Do you really think it's fair? That I have to hide in here from you? Because of you. To fucking rot in here. Huh? Do you think that's fair when you're just dirt under my boots?"

Ginger takes a step back as he moves towards him.

"I..." he says, voice quiet, dry and breaking. "Tim, I... You wanted it yourself, I've..."

"Oh, so what now?" Tim asks, pushing him, Ginger's breath hitching at the impact. "Is it my own fucking fault?"

"No, no," Ginger stutters, retreating, trying to evade him, to fucking get away from him. "Of course not. I... Tim, I don't want you to be here. I've told you. I don't want that."

Tim laughs.

"Good to know we're in agreement," he says. "I don't want to fucking rot here either. But you know, if I weren't, you'd keep clinging to me. You'd follow me out of the goddamn Milky Way. You fucking gooey piece of shit. You. You've forced me here."

  
John tries to interject.

A fucking paragon of high moral ground he is.

  
He tries, but Tim doesn't listen to him.

Ginger's jelly brushes against his hand.

  
"Don't touch me," he says, slapping it away. "Don't you ever, _ever_ dare touch me. You don't get to do that. Dirt. You're just fucking dirt."

The dirt lets out a miserable, painful sound.

"Tim," it says.

  
"I hate you," Tim responds.

  
He said they'd have a fucking chat.

  
"You know, I really fucking hate you, Ginger," he says. "I do. I swear, I do. I hate everything about you. I hate your hands you touch me with. I hate your every question to me. I hate your smelly, depressive drinking. I hate your dumb face. I hate that bus door that you couldn't close quietly enough. I hate it that once or twice during all these years you really thought I'd want you. That I'd love you back. That I'd need you. I don't, Ginger. I only hate you. You're pathetic. I hate your sloppy, drooling mouth you dare to put on me. I hate seeing you between my legs. How you fucking look at me. How I have to fucking understand what you're thinking. I hate how you look, okay? You are ugly. Nobody in their right mind would even want to spit on you. Nobody had ever had, hadn't they? You just had to wait for me. For me to take the first glance ever at you. For me to notice you exist. You know, I don't think you should. I think I should've killed you long ago. I think you should've killed yourself. I hate you. I hate everything I've told you that I love. Every single thing. I lied, you know. I don't love you. I fucking hate you, Ginger. You're nothing. You can't be loved. And I don't. And I never will. I'll only hate you like I've always hated you. I hate you now. I hate you, Ginger. Do you understand me? Do you understand me, you dirt? Do you? Huh?"

  
And John is hissing, John is saying Ginger's name, John's telling him to leave, saying they should go and leave this monster rot alone, but Tim doesn't listen to him.

Neither does the dirt.

  
"I..." it whispers, licks at its fucking lips he wants to beat bloody. "It's okay. Tim. Just don't... It's fine. I..."

"Oh," Tim exhales. "Is it? Is it fine? Are you okay with this as well? Do you agree? Will you take that too? Do you _consent_?"

The dirt shivers.

"I..." it mumbles. "Yeah. Yes. If you---"

  
Tim laughs.

  
"Sweet," he says.

  
He slaps Ginger.

  
He starts slapping Ginger and he doesn't see his face, his pathetic disgusting face he hates, but he slaps it, beats it bloody, he starts slapping him and he doesn't stop.

"Enough?" he asks and doesn't stop no matter the fucking answer.

  
No matter the fucking crying.

  
The pitiful, revolting sobbing.

The tears he now has on his hand.

The tears and blood.

The dirt.

  
The dirt howls.

  
"Fucking hell, Tim," he hears John's voice cutting through the haze. "Stop. Stop! What the fuck are you doing?"

  
John is only one or two steps closer to him.

He turns around, glancing at him, and laughs.

Coward.

  
"Huh?" he asks, genuinely inrigued. "What am I doing? Are you serious? Can't you see? Are you fucking blind? Or just this, actually this thick? _What the fuck are you doing_. I'm doing anything I want, John. The usual, you know. I've always done it. This is all I do. Or do you really think it was something else? Do you really think it wasn't me just doing anything I want every fucking time? Don't you understand what this all is? It's a torture chamber, John. It's been that from the very start. And you poked your stupid nose in it. And hanged around while I was breaking him. Stood with me side by side as I raped and abused him. Tried a bit of that too. I wasn't joking, John, you know. It's not a game. It's all for real. Everything I do really hurts him. Excruciates him. Puts him through agony. And things you do too. It's all for real. No theater involved, John. I've been breaking him and you simply watched. Watched all along. Giggled. Teased him. Poked your moronic fingers into his wounds. Bit him with your senseless teeth. Helped me. Played along. _Partner_. You simply let me hurt him, John. You let me do anything I want."

  
He laughs, when John's pissed off, shocked, shattered figure flinches as he sways towards him.

  
"Coward," he says. "You're just a fucking coward."

  
Something squirms under his hand. Trembles. Suffocates.

He shivers. He recoils.

  
"Tim, you..." Ginger pushes out, as Tim's hand crushes his gulping throat just like it should've done long ago. "Tim, please..."

  
The dirt asks for his attention.

  
"You're hurting me," the dirt says, squeezes out, voice dry, quiet, breaking, breathless, helpless, dumb.

  
Tim laughs like a maniac, shaking, looking at his stupid face he hates without seeing it.

He always sees it. Those fucking eyes are always on him.

Clinging. Following him around.

  
Maybe he should've plucked them out.

  
Maybe he should've poured some acid in them.

  
"Yeah,” he says and laughs, he lets go of Ginger’s throat and slaps him again, palm and then his fist, he hits him, face, his hands that still try to touch him, his fucking stomach he should’ve torn through long ago. “Yeah, I am. Of course, I am. Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted? Didn't you agree to all of this? Didn't you say you only wanted to be near me? Didn't you say I'd made you happy? Didn't you want all of this yourself, you filth? Didn't you? Huh?"

  
The filth coughs and wipes his mouth.

  
"I..." it says. "I... Yeah. I did. Tim, I did. Just..."

  
"So fucking enjoy it now, dear," Tim says, and then his hand moves again. Again. Again. He'd told him he wouldn't stop, hadn't he? And the filth said he could do anything he wanted. The filth said all of that itself. "Hey, coward. Hey. Listen. Check this out. You know, this is actually what he told me. This is really what he fucking said. I asked him what he wanted from me, and he said the only thing he wanted was to be near me. Just to be near me. Funny, huh? I mean, how can a person be so pathetic? I made him into nothing, I made him into shit, I made him eat it, I strangled him, I made him say he is nothing but my food, I told him he could not say no to me, I almost fucking drowned him and all he wants from me is to be near. Oh. Huh. Okay. I did, yeah. I almost drowned him, John. I held him under water and he stared with his dumb eyes at me. He would've let me. He thought I'd throw him away. Maybe I fucking should've. Maybe I should've drowned him back then. This... filth. He is just dirt, John, and you know that. He's filth under our boots. I hate him, John. You know, you asked me how I could. How I could listen to him, how I could know what he thought he was and not just die in there. How I could love him. How I could love such pathetic filth. And John, I've no idea. No idea. I want to pluck my eyes when I look at him. I don't know how I can be near something so miserable and puny. I don't fucking get how I can love it. I fucking hate it that I do. Like I have to. Do I fucking have to love this? This. This shaking, repugnant squid goo. You know, there're so many other, better people. Actual fucking people. And I am stuck with him. Like a fucking curse. Stuck loving this piece of shit. Thinking about him. Caring. Wanting him. The fucking mental bullshit I have to think about him. About you, you filth. Are you still here? Are you still alive? I want to fucking kill you. I dream about drowning you, about skinning you alive, about shoving my fist into your stomach, about pulling your fucking backbone out. I really fucking dream about it. I have to have it in my head because of you. You've made me into this. You and your fucking gratitude for being tortured. You know, I didn't get it at the time. I didn't know you were so pathetic. But you would've let me do anything to you the very first time. By that goddamn shed I hope has burned. I could've fucked your mouth you wouldn't close for the love of god. I could've fucking bent you there and fucked you dry. You would've let me. You'd only seen how many was it, six? Six fucking cock by then, you had sucked two, you were a fucking virgin, but you would've let me. Would've gladly gone on your knees for me even if I really laughed at you like you thought I would. Even if there was a stadium full of people around us. You would've let me do anything, wouldn't you? Anything. I could've slapped you. Many, many times. I could've beaten you. I could've made you eat fucking dirt under my boots. Eat my fucking shit. You would've done everything for me, wouldn't you? Just because I fucking looked at you. Just because of that. Because you're that sick. Compliant fucking goo. You and your agreeing. How? How did you get like that? Had somebody made you eat shit before me? Or is it because nobody had ever even looked at you? Nobody'd ever cared to fucking see you. Or had you been hurt and traumatized? Had one of those guys you jerked off on the couch with raped you? Had all of your fucking relatives done that? Is there a reason for you being such a jelly? Or is it just because you are that? Are you fucking pathetic on your own? Are you actually not even a real person? Are you just fucking goo, huh? Are you? Answer me. Fucking answer me. Fucking tell me what you are. You shit. You piece of dirt. You squid goo. What are you? Tell me, what fucking are you?"

  
He screams.

  
The room is dark and it closes the door after them, it _locks_ it, locks them in, there is no return from here, this cold, slick, coiling thing desiring only freedom can never completely leave here, so why should they, why shouldn't they rot with him too, it locks them in there with it and he screams.

He screams and screams and screams, until he can no longer and past that, until the sound that he makes is barely a raspy breath, until he understands he is locked in there too, understands there is no way out, understands that he is helpless, that he can't help, Tim understands that and the thing that now occupies his body starts to talk.

  
He screams again when he understands what it is doing.

  
It's dark in there, in the room, he cannot see their faces, only their crumbling frames, their movements, he can smell their sweat, their fear, their trance and the blood, _Ginger_ 's blood, he can't see them and they can't see him either, they can't see that thing that tortures them, it jumps, jerks and sways, it attacks them in complete darkness, while they are blind, defenseless, exposed before it, it gnaws on them, it bites them, it tears them apart with his own fucking teeth.

  
He can't stop it.

  
Ginger keeps taking steps back, until he's pressed into the wall, and John is standing by the door, John doesn't yet realize what is going on and Ginger, Ginger, it seems, knows, they both are of the ocean, they dwell in the same waters, they've been traversing them together, they are close and he's been close with John, he's been getting closer, sure, but John, John is young, is still naive and fucking innocent, he doesn't understand a single thing, he stands there by the door as the thing opens his own mouth and starts talking to them, he simply stands there, letting it give fucking speeches, he simply watches without seeing anything, watches, instead of grabbing Ginger, snatching him away, instead of running the fuck away with him, from _him_ , from it, from that thing that is going mad in the room with them.

Ginger's face is pale and he's scared, he's trembling a little, breath hitching, he still hopes it will be alright, _it_ will calm down, he simply offers it what he always offers him, he surrenders to its will, he gives his love, he loves it like he loves him, it's all he knows how to do and that's...

That's not what the thing wants from him.

  
The thing hates him.

  
The fucking thing only loves itself.

  
And hurting him.

It asks him if he gives permission, it plays with him, it teases him, it doesn't need any sanction, it's purpose is to simply take what it wants, it is all it ever does, it asks him and then it slaps him, it lifts his own hand, _Tim's own hand_ and it slaps Ginger, it slaps hard, slaps like Tim himself has slapped him.

It slaps him for every pang of conscience Tim has ever felt, for every sting of shame, guilt, fear, pity and remorse, for every thought that haunted Tim and oh fuck, there have been so many.

It isn't shy about hitting him with Tim's own fist.

  
Tim screams, as it beats Ginger bloody, as Ginger sobs and lets it, just sobs and lets it.

Tim sobs with him.

  
It hits him the very same way Tim's been hitting the wall his sweaty, his beautiful back he loves is pressed to and oh fuck, has Tim's been hitting it.

Has he been slamming his fists into that fucking wall.

  
Has he been doing that.

Has the thing whispered in his ear.

  
The thing is hitting Ginger, it's really fucking hitting him, beating him bloody, nasty, ruthless, it is also blind, careless, raging, Tim can't see what parts of Ginger's tender plasma of a body it is crushing, but he can feel, these are his own hands, his own fists, his own blows and he knows where they land, he's well acquianted with the map of Ginger's skin he'd kiss and kiss and kiss, he knows what it is that lies beneath it, he's smelled his internal organs he wants to lick, to bite into, to devour, he knows exactly how much pain it is causing, he knows how to hurt him best, he's learned a lot over eight long years and it has learned with him.

It's beating Ginger with fucking _expertise._

  
Tim can't stop it.

  
Tim knows where the spleen is, where lie the kidneys, where the liver likes to hang out, he's really familiar with ribs, Tim knows the fucking atlas, Tim knows that it hurts differently when it's only flesh and when there is a bone.

Tim knows this last kick wouldn't break his shin, but also Tim knows how he should change the blow to suceed in that.

Tim knows what type of strike would crush the knee.

  
And the windpipe.

  
Tim's a specialist in applying pressure.

  
Tim knows about the fucking risks.

  
Tim squeezes his fingers, wet, grazed, shaking fingers on Ginger's throat and feels his pulse, terrified and yet still pliant under his fingertips.

Tim strangles him as the thing has casual chats with John.

  
Tim can't stop it.

  
Tim can't stop.

  
_It._

  
It is fucking Tim.

  
"Answer me," Tim says, shaking Ginger by his shoulders. "You shit. You piece of dirt. You goo. What are you? Tell me, what fucking are you?"

  
Tim says that.

  
Tim shakes him, his barely conscious body, Tim didn't see that, but he knows that Ginger's head, Ginger's fucked up head that lies there in his lap or on his shoulder as they merge, that it has met the wall a few times already, that there've been those types of punches, Tim doesn't really remember throwing them, but he can tell, he feels it, feels Ginger's helpless, liquid plasma trembling in his arms.

  
"I'm," Ginger says. 

  
"Tim," Ginger says.

  
"I'm just your food, Tim," Ginger tells him. And not only that. "I'm nothing. I am dirt. Slime. I'm a pile of shit. I am pathetic. I am your food, Tim. I'm anything... Anything you want. I'll do anything. I love you, Tim. Tim. Please, just..."

  
That's what he says while Tim beats and strangles him.

  
While the thing conducts casual chats with John.

  
Tim prays, when it turns its snout to him.

  
Tim prays to all his ancient gods that John doesn't understand a single thing, doesn't understand this t h i n g, he prays that John doesn't look at it, doesn't examine it, doesn't feel a sting of envy, that impulse that Tim knows the smell of so well, he prays that John doesn't want to compete with it, doesn't want to be better than it, doesn't think that this - it - is something similar to him.

Tim prays that John doesn't recognize it, while the thing has casual chats with him.

  
"Coward," the thing calls him.

  
The room is dark and John is nowhere near him, John's standing by the door, John doesn't live with him, he knows of the room, but he has no idea what it means, what it represents, what it does to him, John's clueless, scared, John still think they could escape, John probably really wonders why Ginger wouldn't simply walk past the raging thing and leave with him.

He probably really thinks that until the thing turns its snout to him.

  
Tim can't see him, can't see his face, it's only his confused, clueless, scared frame that he can see, but as the image shakes before his eyes, as it jumps and jerks and sways towards him, laughing, he sees how John flinches.

He sees how John slowly recognizes him.

  
He wants to help.

  
Tim really, really wants to help him, he doesn't want to hurt him, not him, it's stupid, it's like fighting babies, embryos, he would be a shark that chooses to combat larvae were he to hurt him, he doesn't want to, he wants to see his smile, the brightest one he's ever seen, and his beautiful naked back that always leaves him speechless, that still stupefies him, he wants... Yeah, he's been a shit to Ginger, he's been a monster to him, he's hurt him so much, but to hurt John...

Tim doesn't want it.

Tim only wants John to giggle, smile, eat his ugly cakes.

  
Tim only wants John to be happy.

  
But it is not what the thing wants from John.

  
It wants to brag.

It wants to be acknowledged.

  
"Don't fucking go near me," it says, turning its snout to him, panting, growling, baring Tim's own teeth.

  
Then it laughs.

  
Tim really wants to help John.

He wants to cross the distance between them, entirely, to shrink that space, to hug him, stand there heart to heart with him, he wants to put his palms on his ears and cover, press on them, he wants to say _don't listen to him_ , because what he says is not for children's ears.

  
Tim doesn't want John to be afraid of him.

  
Tim's always, always longed for the very opposite.

  
"Fuck," it laughs. "You won't, will you? You won't, John. You won't come closer. You won't _interfere_. You're a fucking coward. Chicken. You're just a dumb first-grader. Come here, John. Come on. Come and punch me. Let's see who's gonna destroy whose ass when I'm not throwing the fight. Come on. For fairness. For your education. Or you'll just die as dumb as you ever were. Come on. Beat me. Burn me. Strangle me. Mutilate and murder me. Bury me in the fucking ditch, John. _Stop me._ Stop me from hurting him. Stop me from playing with your toy. Come on. Stop me, John. You can, can't you? You aren't me. You are fucking better. You surely can stop me, John. Or fucking can you? Huh? Can you?"

  
The room is dark and Tim can't see the cracks that overtake John's face, but he feels them, feels the heat, the bubbling lava, feels his fury - and then he feels that he recoils from him.

Flinching.

  
Tim knows John's afraid.

  
Which he should be, because all Tim's ever wanted is to love him.

  
The thing laughs.

  
"Fucking pussy," it says, taking a step forward. John's standing, simply standing there, not by the door, he is a bit closer now, but that is all he does, that's all he can do, Tim hopes he can do at least that. 

Tim can only hope he won't run away from him.

  
Tim can only hope he won't abandon Ginger.

  
He won't leave him with _him._

  
"Fucking pussy," _he_ says, smirking. "Dumb, self-important, fussy, cock sucking, childish pussy. You know, I guess all those guys were right about you. Those ones who called you faggot. Those how many of them? Two? Three? All seventeen? Those _bullies._ Those big boys who made you cry. They were fucking right about you, John. You're a faggot. Weak, puny, hen-hearted faggot. You're a coward. Greedy, jealous, stupid little sadist who can't even hold his own spoon. You're just a cheap whore who wears leopard rags, John. A dumb whore who just likes to have shiny things. Just a fucking coward who needs fucking lectures about what it is he himself wants. I fucking hate you, John. I do, don't be upset. I've not forgotten about you. I won't neglect you. I hate you just as much as that fucking subhuman filth. You know, John... Maybe... Maybe I hate you even _more_."

  
Tim prays that there aren't tears on John's pretty face as the thing has casual chats with him.

  
"I hate you even more than this fucking slime, John," it says, creeping closer. "Are you happy? Have you got everything you're due? Or must I cater to your other needs? Must I serve you better? Must I bring you sugar that is not made of carbon? Oh. Sorry, dear. Old age. Alzheimer's. You don't fucking know what carbon is, do you?"

  
Tim screams when the thing moves forward.

  
Tim can't stop it.

  
Tim can't see him, the room is so fucking dark, but Tim can feel that John still forgives him.

Forgets what he doesn't see the very second he doesn't see it.

  
And it's not because he's...

  
It's just fear. 

And Tim can't blame him, Tim fucking shaked and smashed the mirrors when he himself met that thing, when it winked and waved his own hand at him, and Tim's been in close relationship with it, Tim's its relative, Tim is its fucking twin, and John...

It is the very first time he doesn't see it.

  
Of course, he is afraid of it.

It's jumping, jerking, swaying in the darkness, attacking, gnawing on him, biting into him only to spit him out.

  
It doesn't want to eat him.

  
It doesn't even _like_ him.

  
It's just he happened to be in the same room with it.

  
It's just it can chew him and swallow him whole and then there won't be anything left to spit out.

  
It simply wants some gratitude.

  
Just some fucking recognition.

  
It laughs.

  
"Fucking hell," it says, laughing in the darkness, staring at John's shaking frame with blind eyes. With Tim's own eyes. "And you were fucking worried you're like me. You. Monster. Ha. Ha. Ha. You're nothing. Nothing like me. You're nothing, John. You're just a fussy sneaky idiot who stands next to me and giggles. Daring to stick your tongue out at me. I should've fucking ripped it out, you know. Fed it to you. Or to him. To this fucking goo who eats everybody's shit. You aren't me, John. You're fucking worse. You're nothing, nothing in comparison. You've fucking hurt him. You've broken him. You've broken him yourself. Your toy you were so curious about. Just wanted to see what was inside it, right? Just laughed. Just teased him. Just wanted him to have a bit of fun. You dumb motherfucker. You fucking tortured him and never noticed doing that. You'd never noticed him. Needed me to point him out to you. _We were friends_. Fuck. Friends. You don't fucking know what friendship is. _My_ relatives. _My_ car. Calling _me_ on Christmas. Helping _me_. It's always _me_ with you, John. You are the only person you ever think about. You don't love him. You don't know what love is. You only love yourself. And your goddamn guitars. I fucking should've annihilated you and your ass just like you ask me every fucking time. I've never touched you, John. Not once. I've never hurt you. Oh. Okay. Fine. Yeah. That time. Just once. Just that one time. You whiny fucking bastard. Why do you hate me so much? What have I done to you? How dare you hate me? You. How dare you fucking defy me? It means _challenge_ , by the way. How dare you? How dare you fucking resist? How dare you say no to me? What do you think you are? What are you? I should've fucking---"

  
Tim screams when the thing turns his own snout to John.

  
The thing doesn't hear him.

  
"Tim, please, don't," it hears, and Tim hears this too.

  
Why.

  
Why does he fucking hear this.

  
Why.

  
Why is he still here.

  
Why is he still here with _him._

  
_He_ turns around.

  
_He_ laughs.

  
"Oh," he says, chuckling. "Hello there. Are you still here? Aren't you fucking dead yet?"

  
Tim screams, when _he_ tells John about what he is.

John's silent, Tim doesn't see him, it's dark there in the room, it's only his crumbling frame he sees, just barely, he barely hears his breath, he screams so loud he is deaf, he's trapped in here, inside _him_ , he screams, but John is silent, John simply listens to the dust and mold and feathers and dry leaves he speaks, John fucking _listens_ to him and says nothing, so Tim screams for him.

  
Tim hopes John doesn't speak this language.

  
It's all he can do.

  
He can't stop it.

  
He can't stop.

  
"Aren't you fucking dead yet?" he asks, turning back to Ginger.

  
"Sorry," Ginger says.

  
Ginger touches him.

  
He's chest to chest with John, he's close to him, he is about to hit him, he's really about to fucking hit him, to beat some sense into him, teach him a lesson, make him see, he is about to do something he has never done, he must never, ever do, he...

He is about to hurt John, when Ginger touches him.

  
He fucking told him not to touch him.

  
"Tim, I..." he says. "Sorry."

  
Tim laughs.

  
"Yeah?" he asks, tilting his own head. "Are you? Are you sorry? What are you sorry for? Huh, Ginger? Huh?"

  
Ginger shakes, trying to grab at him. 

At the wall.

  
He's beaten him so much he can't really stand.

  
"I..."

  
Well, it's not like when _he_ is here alone he fucking dances, does he.

  
He dies here lying on the floor.

  
"Are you sorry you haven't died yet?" he inquires. "Are you sorry you're still around? Are you sorry you exist, Ginger? Is that it? Tell me. Come on. You can tell me. It's _me_. You've told me everything. You love me. You're grateful to me. You just want to be near me. Tell me. Say you're sorry you exist."

  
The room is dark and Tim knows they can't see him.

  
Tim only hopes they still get it while the cold, slick, coiling, the chatty fucking thing slowly tortures them.

Tim hopes they understand.

  
Tim only hopes that they see that it is what he is.

  
It is what he really is.

  
Tim can only hope.

  
Tim can't stop.

  
"I..." Ginger barely breathes out, clinging to him. "I'm sorry, Tim. I'm sorry I exist. Just..."

  
Tim laughs.

  
Tim pushes his tentacle away.

  
His fucking tentacle that dares smearing his own face in goo.

  
"Sweet," he says and laughs. "Now say you love me."

  
Tim only hopes they realize what it is he wants from them.

  
Tim's always been disinclined to stop.

  
"You still love me, don't you?" he continues. "You love me so much right now. You still want to stay here. Want to be with me. To follow me around. To cling to me. To sleep by that fucking door I had put there for a reason. You still want it, don't you? To be loved and to be wanted. To be fucking _happy_. Are those Hanseatic paladins not enough for you? That's just German knights, by the way. Have you heard me, John? Knights. You know, dudes from history. Swords and armor. You've probably seen the pics."

  
The room is dark, but it is not why Tim can't see John.

His back is turned to him.

  
Tim can't see him, doesn't care what's hapenning to him, doesn't give a shit about his stupid face he hates, about his useless fists he's clenching, Tim can't see him, but he stands with his back to him without any worries.

Tim knows he won't do anything to him.

  
Tim knows that he can't.

  
He won't leave him. 

  
He won't stop him.

  
It is a bit too late for that.

  
Tim knows John is in the hell pit with him.

  
"Are those other _Ritters_ not enough?" he asks. "Do forgive my pronunciation. I'm Swedish. I'm Tim. I am not them. Are they not enough? Do you still need my fucking cock in your dirty, shitty, stinky holes? Are those sweet gentlemen not enough? Is this guitar jerking virtuoso not enough? Do you still need me? Are you still in love? Tell me, Ginger. Do you still love me? Tell me. Say you love me, baby."

  
Tim only hopes John fucking gets it that this room is the hell pit.

  
Tim only hopes John knows who it is that rules over hell.

  
"I do," Ginger sobs out, trying to fucking touch him. Sticking to him. Crawling towards him. Inside him. "I... Tim, I love you. I do. I really, really do. I love you. Just... Just, please, Tim. Just stop."

  
Tim screams.

  
Tim closes the door of his own hell pit after all three of them and talks to them just like they wanted.

Tim tells them everything.

  
His every fucking thought he knows by whatever it is that's slithering inside his chest.

Expresses his every sting of shame, guilt, fear, pity and remorse that haunted him.

He shares his pain with them.

He gives them all of his fucking pain.

He is pain.

  
He screams.

  
"I DON'T WANNA FUCKING STOP!" he screams, shaking Ginger by the shoulders, shoving him into the wall and hitting him.

  
He gives them nothing but the pain he is, and the tender loving idiot still says _please, Tim._

  
Still pities _him._

  
_He_ should've fucking killed him.

  
Right there.

  
Right by that shed.

  
It would've been better than seeing him still caring about _him_ right now.

  
But the thing is...

  
The thing is Tim. Tim doesn't see him. Tim just screams.

  
"I don't want to _stop_ ," Tim screams and Tim does not. Tim simply slowly kills him with his own hands. Tim isn't beating him only bloody. Tim is beating him to death. "I don't want to stop, you fucker. I want you. All I fucking want is you. I always think about you. Vile. Vile fucking things. Do you have any idea what I have to think about? What I have to want. You. I have to want you. And you too, you goddamn moron. You and your feathers that are fucking stuck down my throat. I always have to think about you. Like a fucking curse. I always do. I fucking _care_ about you. About your bullshit. Your fucking nonsense. Your holidays you want me to celebrate. Your cinema. Your sparkly make up. Your green tea. Your ugly fucking cakes. Your ugly fucking distant relatives. Your pretentious tunes. Your incessant kissing. Your goddamn Spinoza. I don't even like Spinoza. I don't give a flying fuck about mind-body problem. Why should I care? Why do I fucking care about you? Why do I fucking love you? What have you two done to me? What have you turned me into? What fucking am I? What am I? Tell me. What am I? WHAT AM I?!"

  
Tim locks them in his dark room with him and screams.

  
John says nothing.

  
Ginger says _Tim._

  
"What am I to you?" Tim screams. "What fucking am I that you can't leave me? Can you fucking already go? Can you fuck off? Can you fucking leave me alone? Please. PLEASE. Please, fucking leave me. Leave me to rot. Just leave me. Please."

  
Tim cries.

  
Tim still keeps hitting Ginger.

  
Tim can't stop.

  
"Fucking go," Tim tells them. 

  
The room is dark, but he still hopes they can hear him.

  
"Fucking leave me alone," he says. "Go. Get away. Get away from me. Please. Please, leave me now. Please, I'm begging you. I'm fucking begging you. LEAVE ME. I'm gonna fucking kill you. I'm gonna fucking kill you both in here. Go. Leave. Go away. I'm gonna fucking kill you now."

  
4th of November, 2010.

  
It's Thursday.

  
It's Thursday, when Tim falls. 

When Tim laughs.

  
It's just a second later that John hits him.

  
It's just a second later that John speaks.

  
"Fucking stop!" he shouts as he kicks him, slams his fist into his back. "Stop, you fucking... Stop!"

  
John screams as Tim falls.

  
Tim laughs as John beats him bloody on the floor.

  
John screams as he beats Tim to death. 

His spleen. His liver. Kidneys. Guts. His ribs. His broken back. His contracting stomach. His p e r i n e u m. Him as body parts. Him as a whole. He beats every elementary particle of him. He slams Tim's own heavy boots into his shaking, appalling body writhing there on the floor. He beats Tim with Tim's own expertise.

With Tim's laughter as his guidance.

  
Vomiting and laughter.

  
"Shut up!" John shouts as he kicks him in the darkness, raging, careless, cruel, pissed off, crying, shuddering, covered in blood and blind. 

  
John screams as he disposes of the Devil right at the bottom of their own hell pit.

  
"Shut up!" John screams. "What are you saying? What are you fucking doing? What have you done? You fucking... He fucking loves you, Tim. He doesn't want to leave. He really, really loves you. He fucking cares about you. He always thinks about you. He's happy, do you understand that? He's happy with you. You fucking hurt him. Why did you fucking hurt him so much? Why did you do this? Why, Tim? What fucking are... Fuck. Fuck you, Tim. Don't you get it? Don't you fucking get it, Tim? He just loves you. He loves you, you fucking... He needs you, Tim. Fuck, Tim. You... We fucking need you, don't you understand it? I. Fuck, Tim. I need you. Do you even hear me? I fucking need you, Tim."

  
Tim laughs.

  
Tim is about to cease to exist there on the floor.

  
Tim will soon die at John's feet.

  
"I fucking need you, Tim," John screams, he can scream no longer, Tim's fucking name comes out crippled, John has no breath left, he is panting, bending, towering over Tim, over Tim's bleeding, hemorrhaging, shattered, crushed, puking, laughing body, Tim can't stop laughing, dying there beaten, so John stops for him.

  
It's Thursday. 4th of November. It's 2010.

  
"You need me?" Tim grits out. "You? You, John? Fuck. _Fuck_. What do you fucking need me for?"

  
It's Thursday.

  
Tim is on the floor.

  
Tim is dying a slow agonizing death on the fucking floor.

  
"What, John?" Tim screams, unfolding, looking up at him. "What do you need me for? To fucking do anything I want with him? To hurt him because you can't? To hurt him for you? To be an alpha fucking version of you? Is that it, John? Is that what you need me for? Or do you need me to be your servant? Your teacher. Tempter. Do you need me to poke my fucking fingers in your dumb head because you'd never do that on your own? Do you need me to spoil you? To turn you into a fucking maniac who eats people alive? Or do you need me to chew them for you? Do you need me to provide fucking food for you? Or do you need me to turn into fucking food for you? What do you fucking need me for? To be the fucking villain that you punish? To fucking hurt him so much that you hate me? That you want to strangle me. That you want me fucking dead. What do you fucking, fucking, fucking need me for, John? To be a fucking monster to him so that you could be the angel who decides my goddamn fate? To kill him so that you could finally kill me? What do you need me for? What do you need me to be? Fucking hell, John. Do you really, really need me to be this?"

  
It's Thursday. 4th of November. It's 2010.

  
Eight long years have passed.

  
It's Thursday.

  
That's when Tim gets his answers.

  
_I don't know you that well_ , John once said to him.

  
"Yes," John tells him now.

  
He screams.

  
"Yes," John says, shaking, crying, disintegrating above him. "Okay? Yes. Yes, Tim. I do. I need you. Yes. For all of that. For fucking this, okay? For this. I need you, Tim. I... Fuck, Tim. I fucking love you. Do you get it? I fucking love you, Tim."

  
Tim screams, but he still hears what it is that John tells him.

  
It's Thursday.

  
John falls onto the floor right next to him.

  
And as they lie there, in the darkness, close to each other, John helpless, crying, on his own, Tim laughing, laughing, laughing like he cannot stop, as Tim screams, going deaf and blind, bleeding out, beaten, burnt, strangled, mutilated, murdered, turned inside out, as he is waiting to be buried in his grave he feels a touch.

  
_The_ touch.

  
The fucking touch of fucking tentacle he'd recognize even being dead.

  
That tender, loving touch he begged to stop giving him.

  
That short, quiet, scared syllable of his own name.

  
_Tim._

  
It's Thursday.

  
Tim's lying there on the floor of his dark room and John has slumped down, he's slouching, sitting next to him, and he is crying, John is _crying_ , J o h n, he's howling, he's there in the hell pit with him, and as John cries and Tim laughs like mad Ginger lies there close to him, Ginger still touches him, Ginger says _Tim_ , Ginger still loves him, John loves him and Tim...

  
Tim gets up.

  
Oh fuck.

  
Tim gets up, unlocks the door, stains the walls with blood while he exits, the room, the corridor, another room, he's looking for the keys, he finds them, he leaves the house, he walks, he slumps down, crawls, gets up again, opens the door and closes it, Tim gets into his old fucking car.

  
And then.

  
Fuck.

  
Fucking hell.

  
Then he backs up, two meters, three, five, maybe ten, another soccer SUV mom's lawn, should be enough, his hands are fucking glued to the steering wheel, his eyes are on the house, on his own fucking house he almost killed them in, he inhales, takes a deep breath, and then he slams his foot into the gas pedal.

  
He

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Name: Skold, Tim  
Gender: Male  
Date of Birth: 12/14/1966  
Race: Caucasian  
Date of admission: 11/4/2010  
House address:   
**Details of accident**  
Describe events leading up to incident:  
**Symptoms &signs**  
Pain:  
Bleeding:  
**Injury**  
Body part:  
**Observations**  
Pulse:  
Blood pressure:  
Temperature:  
**Other observations:** possible suicide attempt  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

An interlude before the next part: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072140


End file.
